^ 


mm  i 


SERTRA.D  S^fTHfr 
4CRES  OF   Books 
*4®  PACIFIC  AVffNUK 
L*NS  »KA«H.  CALfr. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly 


BY 

MAURICE  THOMPSON 

AUTHOR  OF 

"Alice  of  Old  Vincennes,"  "A  Banker  of  Bankersville,"  etc 


NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 
STREET  &  SMITH,   PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1888  ' 
By  THE  ALDEN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1903 
By  STREET  &  SMITH 

A  Fortnight  of  Folly 


c?  s'fr 

A   FORTNIGHT   OF    o 
FOLLY. 


The  Hotel  Helicon  stood  on  a  great  rock 
promontory  that  jutted  far  out  into  a  sea  of  air 
whose  currents  and  eddies  filled  a  wide,  wild  val- 
ley in  the  midst  of  our  southern  mounta'n  re- 
gion. It  was  a  new  liotel,  built  by  a  Cincinnati 
man  who  founded  his  fortune  in  natural  gas 
speculations,  and  who  had  conceived  tl.e  bright 
thou^iht  of  making  the  liouse  famous  at  the 
start  by  a  stroke  of  rare  liberal.ty. 

Viewing  the  large  building  from  any  favorable 
point  in  the  valley,  it  looked  like  a  huge  whi  te  bi  rd 
sitting  with  outstretched  wings  on  the  gray  rock 
far  up  against  the  tender  blue  sky.  All  around 
it  the  Forests  were  thick  and  green,  the  ravines 
deep  and  gloomy  and  the  rocks  tumbled  into 
fantastic  heaps.  Wlien  you  reached  it,  which 
was  after  a  whole  day  of  hard  zig-zag  climbing, 
you  found  it  a  rather  plain  three-story  house, 
whose  broad  verandas  were  worried  with  a  mass 
of  jig-saw  fancies  and  whose  windows  glared  at 
you  between  wide  open  green  Venetian  shutters. 
Everything  look  new,  almost  raw,  from  the  stumps 
of  fresh-cut  trees  on  the  lawn  and  the  rope  swings 
and  long  benches,  upon  which  the  paint  was 
scarcely  dry,  to  the  resonant  floor  of  the  spacious 
halls  and  the  cedar-fragrant  hand-rail  of  the 
etairway. 

5 


ivi5014e9 


6  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

There  were  springs  among  the  rocks.  Here 
the  water  trickled  out  with  a  red  gleam  of  iron 
oxide,  there  it  sparkled  with  an  excess  of  car- 
bonic acid,  and  yonder  it  bubbled  up  all  the 
more  limpid  and  clear  on  account  of  the  offen- 
sive sulphuretted  hydrogen  it  was  bringing  forth. 
Masses  of  fern,  great  cushions  of  cool  moss  and 
tangles  of  blooming  shrubs  and  vines  fringed 
the  sides  of  the  little  ravines  down  which  the 
spring-streams  sang  their  way  to  the  silver 
thread  of  a  river  in  the  valley. 

It  was  altogether  a  dizzy  perch,  a  strange,  in- 
convenient, out-of-the-way  spot  for  a  summer 
hotel.  You  reached  it  all  out  of  breath,  con- 
fused as  to  the  points  of  the  compass  and  dis- 
appointed, in  every  sense  of  the  word,  with 
what  at  first  glance  struck  you  as  a  colossal 
pretense,  empty,  raw,  vulgar,  loud  —  a  great 
trap  into  which  you  had  been  inveigled  by  an 
eloquent  hand-bill!  Hotel  Helicon,  as  a  name 
for  the  place,  was  considered  a  happy  one.  It 
had  come  to  the  proprietor,  as  if  in  a  dream,  one 
day  as  he  sat  smoking.  He  slapped  his  thigh 
with  his  hand  and  sprang  to  his  feet.  The  word 
that  went  so  smoothly  with  hotel,  as  he  fancied, 
had  no  special  meaning  in  his  mind,  for  the  gas 
man  had  never  been  guilty  of  classical  lore- 
study,  but  it  furnished  a  taking  alliteration. 

"  Hotel  Helicon,  Hotel  Helicon,"  he  repeated  ; 
"that's  just  a  dandy  name.  Hotel  Helicon  on 
Mount  Boab,  open  for  the  season  I  If  that 
doesn't  get  'em  I'll  back  down." 

His   plans  matured  themselves  very  rapidly 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  7 

in  his  mind.  One  brilliant  idea  followed  another 
in  swift  succession,  until  at  last  he  fell  upon  the 
scheme  of  making  Hotel  Helicon  free  for  the 
initial  season  to  a  select  company  of  authors 
chosen  from  among  the  most  brilliant  and 
famous  in  our  country. 

"Zounds!  "  he  exclaimed,  all  to  himself,  "but 
won't  that  be  a  darling  old  advertisement !  I'll 
have  a  few  sprightly  newspaper  people  along 
with  'em,  too,  to  do  the  interviewing  and  puff- 
ing.    By  jacks,  it's  just  the  Avrinkle  to  a  dot  I  " 

Mr.  Gaslucky  was  of  the  opinion  that,  like 
Napoleon,  he  was  in  the  hands  of  irresistible 
destiny  which  would  ensure  the  success  of  what- 
ever he  might  undertake  ;  still  he  was  also  a 
realist  and  depended  largely  upon  tricks  for  his 
results.  He  had  felt  the  great  value  of  what 
he  liked  to  term  legitimate  advertising,  and  he 
was  fond  of  saying  to  himself  that  any  scheme 
would  succeed  if  properly  set  before  the  world. 
He  regarded  it  a  maxim  that  anything  which 
can  be  clearly  described  is  a  fact.  His  realism  was 
the  gospel  of  success,  he  declared,  and  needed 
but  to  be  stated  to  be  adopted  by  all  the  world. 

From  the  first  he  saw  how  his  hotel  was  to  be 
an  intellectual  focus;  moreover  he  designed  to 
have  it  radiate  its  own  glory  like  a  star  set  upon 
Mt.  Boab. 

The  difficulties  inherent  in  this  project  were 
from  the  first  quite  apparent  to  Mr.  Gasluckj^, 
but  he  was  full  of  expedients  and  cunning.  He 
had  come  out  of  the  lowest  stratum  of  life,  fight- 


S  A  Fortnight  of  Fslly. 

ing  his  way  up  to  success,  and  his  knowledge  of 
human  nature  was  accurate  if  not  very  broad. 

Early  in  the  summer,  about  the  first  days  of 
June,  in  fact,  certain  well-known  and  somewhat 
distinguished  American  authors  received  by 
due  course  of  mail  an  autograph  letter  from 
Mr.  Gaslucky,  which  was  substantially  as  fol- 
lows: 

Cincinnati,  0.,  May  30,  1887. 
My  dear  Sir: 

The  Uotel  Helicon,  situated  on  the  Leuca- 
dian  promontory,  far  up  the  height  oC  Mt.  Boab 
and  overlooking  tlie  glorious  valley  of  the  B,g 
Mash  Eiver,  amid  the  grandest  scenery  of  the 
Cumberland  Mountains,  where  at  their  southern 
extremity  they  break  into  awful  peaks,  chasms 
and  escarpments,  is  now  thrown  open  to  a  few 
favored  guests  for  the  summer.  The  proprietor 
in  a  spirit  of  liberality  (and  for  the  purpose  of 
making  this  charming  hotel  known  to  a  select 
public)  is  issuing  a  few  special  invitations  to 
distinguished  people  to  come  and  spend  the 
summer  free  of  charge.  You  «re  cordially  and 
urgently  invited.  The  Hotel  Helicon  is  a  place 
to  delight  the  artist  and  the  litter ateur.  It  is 
high,  airy,  cool,  surrounded  by  wild  scenes,  good 
shooting  and  fishing  at  hand,  incomparable  min- 
eral springs,  baths,  grottos,  dark  ravines  and 
indeed  everything  engaging  to  the  imagination. 
The  proprietor  will  exhaust  efibrt  to  make  his 
chosen  guests  happy.  The  rooms  are  new, 
sweet,  beautifully  furnished  and  altogether  com- 
fortable, and  the  table  will  have  every  dehcacy 
of  the  season  served  in  the  best  style.  There 
will  be  no  uninvited  guests,  all  will  be  chosen 
from  the  most  exalted  class.     Come,  and  lor 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  5. 

one  season  taste  the  sweets  of  the  dews  of  Heli- 
con, without  mone}^  and  without  ])rice. 

If  you  accept  this  earnest  and  cordial  invita- 
tion, notify  me  at  once.  Hotel  Helicon  is  at 
your  command.  Truly  yours, 

Isaiah  K.  Gaslucky. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  tli's  letter  was  the 

product    of  a    professional    advertising    agent 

employed  for  the  occasion  by  the  proprietor  oi 

lotel   Helicon.     The   reader  will  observe  the 

-marks  of  the  creation  and  readily  recognize 

-  source.  Of  course,  when  the  letter  was. 
.(ddressed  to  a  woman  there  was  a  change,  not 
only  in  the  gender  of  tlie  terms,  but  in  the  tone, 
which  took  on  a  more  persuasive  color.  The 
attractions  of  the  place  were  described  in  more 
poetic  phrasing  and  a  cunningly  half-hidden 
thread  of  romance,  about  picturesque  moun- 
taineers and  retired  and  reformed  bandits,  was 
woven  in. 

Naturally  enough,  each  individual  who  re- 
ceived this  rather  uncommon  letter,  read  it 
askance,  at  first,  suspecting  a  trick,  but  the 
newspapers  soon  cleareil  the  matter  up  by  an- 
nouncing that  Mr.  Isaiah  Gaslucky,  of  Cincin- 
nati, had  "conceived  the  happy  idea  of  making 
his  new  and  picturesque  Hotel  Helicon  free  this 
season  to  a  small  and  select  company  of  distin- 
guished guests.  The  hotel  will  not  be  open  to 
the  public  until  next  year." 

And  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  in  midsummer 
such  a  company  as  never  before  was  assembled, 
met  on  Mt.  Boab  and  made  the  halls  of  Hotel 


lo  'A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

Helicon  gay  with  their  colors  and  noisy  with 
their  mirth.  The  woods,  the  dizzy  cliffs,  the  bub- 
bling springs,  the  cool  hollows,  the  windy  peaks 
and  the  mossy  nooks  were  filled  with  song,  laugh- 
ter, murmuring  under-tones  of  sentiment,  or 
something  a  little  sweeter  and  warmer,  and  there 
were  literary  conversations,  and  critical  talks,  and 
jolly  satire  bandied  about,  with  some  scraps  of 
adventure  and  some  bits  of  rather  ludicrous  mis- 
hap thrown  in  for  variety. 

Over  all  hung  a  summer  sky,  for  the  most 
part  cloudless,  and  the  days  were  as  sweet  as 
the  nights  were  delicious. 


II. 


In  the  afternoon  of  a  breezy  day,  at  the  time 
when  the  shadows  were  taking  full  possession 
of  the  valley,  the  coach  arrived  at  Hotel  Heli- 
con from  the  little  railway  station  at  the  foot  of 
Mt.  Boab. 

A  man,  the  only  passenger,  alighted  from  his 
perch  beside  the  driver  and  for  a  moment  stood 
as  if  a  little  dazed  by  what  he  saw. 

He  was  very  short,  rather  round  and  stout, 
and  bore  himself  quietly,  almost  demurely.  His 
head  was  large,  his  feet  and  hands  were  small 
and  his  face  wore  the  expression  of  an  habitual 
good  humor  amounting  nearly  to  jolliness, 
albeit  two  vertical  wrinkles  between  his  brows 
hinted  of  a  sturdy  will  seated  behind  a  heavy 
Napoleonic  forehead.  The  stubby  tufts  of 
grizzled  hair  that  formed  his  mustaches  shaded 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  II 

a  mouth  and  chin  at  once  strong  and  pleasing. 
He  impressed  the  group  of  people  on  the  hotel 
•veranda  most  favorably,  and  at  once  a  little 
buzz  of  inquiry  circulated.  No  one  knew 
him. 

That  this  was  an  important  arrival  could  not 
be  doubted ;  it  was  felt  at  once  and  profoundly. 
Great  men  carry  an  air  of  individuality  about 
with  them  ;  each,  like  a  planet,  has  his  own 
peculiar  atmosphere  by  which  his  light  is  mod- 
ified. There  was  no  mistaking  the  light  in  this 
instance;  it  indicated  a  luminary  of  the  first 
magnitude. 

Unfortunately  the  guests  at  Hotel  Helicon 
were  not  required  to  record  their  names  in  a 
register,  therefore  the  new  comer  could  bide  his 
own  time  to  make  himself  known. 

Miss  Alice  Moyne,  of  Virginia,  the  oeautiful 
young  author  of  two  or  three  picturesque  short 
stories  lately  published  in  a  popular  magazine, 
was  in  conversation  with  Hartley  Crane,  the 
rising  poet  from  Kentucky,  just  at  the  moment 
when  this  new  arrival  caused  a  flutter  on  the 
veranda. 

"  Oh,  I  do  wonder  if  he  can  be  Edgar  De 
Vere?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  No,"  said  Hartley  Crane,  "  I  have  seen  De 
Vere  ;  he  is  as  large  and  as  fascinating  as  his 
romances.  That  little  pudgy  individual  could 
never  make  a  great  romantic  fiction  like  Solway 
Moss,  by  De  Vere." 

"  But  that  is  a  superb  head,"  whispered  Miss 
Moyne,  "  the  head  of  a  master,  a  genius." 


12  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

"Oh,  there  are  heads  and  heads,  geniua 
and  genius,"  replied  Crane.  "  I  guess  the 
new-corner  off  as  a  newspa[)er  man  from  Chi- 
cago or  New  York.  It  requires  first-class  gen- 
ius to  be  a  good  reporter." 

The  stranger  under  discussion  was  now  giving 
some  directions  to  a  porter  regarding  his  lug- 
gage. This  he  did  with  that  peculiar  readiness, 
or  sleight,  so  to  call  it,  which  belongs  to  none  but 
the  veteran  traveler.  A  moment  later  be  came 
up  the  wooden  steps  of  the  hotel,  cast  a  compre- 
hensive but  apparently  indifferent  glance  over 
the  group  of  guests  and  passed  into  the  hall, 
where  they  heard  bim  say  to  the  boy  in  wait- 
ing :     "  My  room  is  24." 

"  That  is  the  reserved  room,"  remarked  two 
or  three  persons  at  once. 

Great  expectations  hung  about  room  24 ; 
much  guessing  had  been  indulged  in  consider- 
ing who  was  to  be  the  happy  and  exalted  per- 
son chosen  to  occupy  it.  Now  he  had  arrived, 
an  utter  stranger  to  them  all.  Everybody 
looked  inquiry. 

"Who  can  he  be?" 

"It  must  be  Mark  Twain,". suggested  little 
Mrs.  Philpot,  of  Memphis. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  Mark  Twain  is  tall,  and  very  hand- 
some; I  know  Mark,"  said  Crane. 

"How  strange  !"  ejaculated  Miss  Moyne,  and 
when  everybody  laughed,  she  colored  a  little 
and  added  hastily: 

"I  didn't  mean  that  it  was  strange  that  Mr. 
Crane  should  know  Mr.  Twain,  but " 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly  I3 

They  drowned  her  voice  with  their  laughter 
and  hand -clapping. 

They  were  not  always  in  this  very  light  mood 
at  Hotel  Helicon,  but  just  now  they  all  felt  in 
a  trivial  vein.  It  was  as  if  the  new  guest  had 
brought  a  breath  of  frivolous  humor  along  with 
him  and  had  blown  it  over  them  as  he  passed  by. 

Boom  24  was  the  choice  one  of  Hotel  Heli- 
con. Every  guest  wanted  it,  on  account  of 
its  convenience,  its  size  and  the  superb  view  its 
windows  afforded  ;  but  from  the  first  it  had  been 
reserved  for  this  favored  individual  whose  arri- 
val added  greater  mystery  to  the  matter. 

As  the  sun  disappeared  behind  the  western 
mountains,  and  the  great  gulf  of  the  valley 
became  a  sea  of  purplish  gloom,  conversation 
clung  in  half  whispers  to  the  subject  who  mean- 
time was  arraying  himself  in  evening  dress  for 
dinner,  posing  before  the  large  mirror  in  room 
24  and  smiling  humorously  at  himself  as  one 
who,  criticising  his  own  foibles,  still  holds  to 
them  with  a  fortitude  almost  Christian. 

He  parted  his  hair  in  the  middle,  but  the  line 
of  division  was  very  slight,  and  he  left  a  pretty, 
half-curled  short  wisp  hanging  over  the  centre 
of  his  forehead.  The  wide  collar  that  hid  his 
short  neck  creased  his  heavy  well-turned  jaws, 
giving  to  his  chin  the  appearance  of  being 
propped  up.  Although  he  was  quite  stout,  his 
head  was  so  broad  and  his  feet  so  small  that  he 
appeared  to  taper  from  top  to  toe  in  a  way  that 
emphasized  very  forcibly  his  expression  of 
blended   dignity   and  jolHty,  youth  and  middle 


14  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

age,  sincerity  and  levity.  When  he  had  finished 
his  toilet,  he  sat  down  by  the  best  window  in  the 
best  room  of  Hotel  Helicon,  and  gazed  out  over 
the  dusky  valley  to  where  a  line  of  quivering 
silver  light  played  fantastically  along  the  line 
of  peaks  that  notched  the  delicate  blue  of  the 
evening  sky.  The  breeze  came  in,  cool  and 
sweet,  with  a  sort  of  champagne  sparkle  in  its 
freshness  and  purity.  It  whetted  his  appetite 
and  blew  the  dust  of  travel  out  of  his  mind. 
He  was  glad  when  the  dinner  hour  arrived. 

The  long  table  was  nearly  full  when  he  went 
down,  and  he  was  given  a  seat  between  MissMoyne 
and  little  Mrs.  Philpot.  By  that  secret  cerebral 
trick  we  all  know,  but  which  none  of  us  can  ex- 
plain, he  was  aware  that  the  company  had  just 
been  discussing  him.  In  fact,  some  one  had 
ventured  to  wonder  if  he  were  Mr.  Howells, 
whereupon  Mr.  Crane  had  promptly  said  that 
he  knew  Mr.  Howells  quite  well,  and  that 
although  in  a  general  way  the  new-comer  was 
not  unlike  the  famous  realist,  he  was  far  from 
identical  with  him. 

Laurens  Peck,  the  bushy- bearded  New  Eng- 
land critic,  whispered  in  some  one's  ear  that  it 
appeared  as  if  Crane  knew  everybody,  but  that 
the  poet's  lively  imagination  had  aided  him 
more  than  his  eyes,  in  all  probability.  "Fact 
is,"  said  he,  "  a  Kentuckian  soon  gets  so  that 
he  thinks  he  has  been  everywhere  and  seen 
everybody,  whether  he  has  or  not." 

Out  of  this  remark  grew  a   serious  affair 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  1 5 

wliicli  it  will  be  my  duty  to  record  at  the  proper 
place. 

Little  Mrs.  Philpot,  who  wore  gold  eye-glasses 
and  had  elongated  dimples  in  her  cheeks  and 
chin,  dexterously  managed  to  have  a  word  or 
two  with  the  stranger,  who  smiled  upon  her 
graciously  without  attempting  to  enter  into  a 
conversation.  Miss  Moyne  fared  a  little  better, 
for  she  had  the  charm  of  grace  and  beauty  to 
aid  her,  attended  by  one  of  those  puffs  of  good 
luck  which  come  to  none  but  the  young  and  the 
beautiful.  Mr.  R.  Hobbs  Lucas,  a  large  and 
awkward  historian  from  New  York,  knocked 
over  a  bottle  of  claret  with  his  elbow,  and  the 
liquor  shot  with  an  enthusiastic  sparkle  diagon- 
ally across  the  table  in  order  to  fall  on  Miss 
Mojme's  lap. 

With  that  celerity  which  in  very  short  and 
stout  persons  appears  to  be  spontaneous,  a  sort 
of  elastic  quality,  the  gentleman  from  room  24 
interposed  his  suddenly  outspread  napkin.  The 
historian  flung  himself  across  the  board  after 
the  bottle,  clawing  rather  wildly  and  upsetting 
things  generally.  It  was  but  a  momentary 
scene,  such  as  children  at  school  and  guests  at  a 
summer  hotel  make  more  or  less  merry  over, 
still  it  drew  forth  from  the  genial  man  of  room 
24  a  remark  which  slipped  into  Miss  Moyne's 
ear  with  the  familiarity  of  well  trained  humor. 

"  A  deluge  of  wine  in  a  free  hotel !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, just  above  a  whisper.  "  Such  generos- 
ity is  nearly  shocking." 

"I  am  sorry  you   mention  it,"  sadd    Miss 


l6  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

Moyne,  witli  her  brightest  and  calmest  smile; 
"  I  have  been  idealizing  the  place.  A  gush  of 
grape-juice  on  Helicon  is  a  picturesque  thing  to 
contem|3late." 

"But  a  lap-full  of  claret  on  Mt.  Boab  is  not 
so  fine,  eh  ?  What  a  farce  poetry  is  !  What  a 
humbug  is  romance !  " 

The  historian  had  sunk  back  in  his  chair  and 
was  scowling  at  the  purple  stain  which  kept 
slowly  spreading  through  the  fiber  of  the  cloth. 

"  I  always  do  something,"  he  sighed,  and  his 
sincerity  was  obvious. 

"And  always  with  ap?om6,"  remarked  little 
Mrs.  Philpot. 

"  It  would  be  a  genius  who  could  knock  over 
a  claret  bottle  with  grace,"  added  Peck.  "  Now 
a  jug  of  ale " 

"  I  was  present  at  table  once  with  Mr.  Emer- 
son," began  the  Kentucky  poet,  but  nobody 
heard  the  rest.  A  waiter  came  with  a  heavy 
napkin  to  cover  the  stain,  and  as  he  bent  over 
the  table  he  forced  the  man  from  room  24  to 
incline  very  close  to  Miss  Moyne. 

"To  think  of  making  an  instance  of  Emer- 
son!" he  murmured.  "Emerson  who  died  be- 
fore he  discovered  that  men  and  women  have 
to  eat,  or  that  wine  will  stain  a  new  dress!" 

"  But  then  he  discovered  so  many  things '* 

she  began. 

"Please  mention  one  of  them,"  he  glibly  in- 
terrupted. "What  did  Emerson  ever  discover? 
Did  he  ever  pen  a  single  truth?" 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  VJ 

"  Aloft  in  secret  veins  of  air 
Blows  the  sweet  breath  of  song,' 

she  replied.     "  He  trod  the  very  headlands   of 

truth.    But  you  are  not  serious "  she  checked 

herself,  recollecting  that  she  was  speaking  to  a 
stranger. 

"Not  serious  but  emphatically  in  earnest,"  he 
went  on,  in  the  same  genial  tone  with  which  he 
had  begun.  "There  isn't  a  thing  but  cunning 
phrase-form  in  anything  the  man  ever  wrote. 
He  didn't  know  how  to  represent  life." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  Miss  Moyne  ventured,  "  you  are 
a  realist." 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  any  adequate  idea 
of  the  peculiar  shade  of  contempt  she  conveyed 
through  the  words.  She  lifted  her  head  a  little 
higher  and  her  beauty  rose  apace.  It  was  as  if 
she  had  stamped  her  little  foot  i.nd  exclaimed: 
"  Of  all  thino-s  I  detest  realism — of  all  men,  I  hate 
realists." 

"But  I  kept  the  wine  off  your  dress!"  he 
urged,  as  though  he  had  heard  her  thought. 
"There's  nothing  good  but  what  is  real.  Eo- 
mance  is  lie-tissue.  -  Eeality  is  truth -tissue." 

"Permit  me  to  thank  you  for  3'our  good 
intentions,"  she  said,  with  a  flash  of  irony ; 
"you  held  the  napkin  just  in  the  right  posi- 
tion, but  the  wine  never  fell  from  the  table. 
Still  your  kindness  lost  nothing  in  quality 
because  the  danger  was  imaginary." 

When  dinner  was  over.  Miss  Moyne  sought 
out  Hartley  Crane,  the  Kentucky  poet  who 
knew  everybody,  and  suggested  that  perhaps 


r8  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

the  stranger  was  Mr.  Arthur  Selby,  ^he  analyt- 
ical novelist  whose  name  was  on  everybody's 
tongue. 

"  But  Arthur  Selby  is  thin  and  bald  and  has 
a  receding  chin.  I  met  him  often  at  the — 
I  forget  the  club  in  New  York,"  said  Crane. 
"It's  more  likely  that  he's  some  reporter.  He's 
a  snob,  anyway." 

"Dear  me,  no,  not  a  snob,  Mr.  Crane  ;  he  is  the 
most  American  man  I  ever  met,"  replied  Miss 
Moyne. 

"But  Americans  are  the  worst  of  all  snobs," 
he  insisted,  "especially  literary  Americans. 
They  adore  everything  that's  foreign  and  pity 
everything  that's  home-made." 

As  he  said  this  he  was  remembering  how 
Tennyson's  and  Browning's  poems  were  over- 
shadowing his  own,  even  in  Kentucky  From 
the  ring  of  his  voice  Miss  Moyne  suspected 
something  of  this  sort,  and  adroitly  changed  the 
subject. 


III. 


It  might  be  imagined  that  a  hotel  fall  of 
authors  would  be  sure  to  generate  some  flashes 
of  disagreement,  but,  for  a  time  at  least,  every- 
thing went  on  charmingly  at  Hotel  Helicon. 
True  enough,  the  name  of  the  occupant  of  room 
24  remained  a  vexatious  secret  which  kept 
growing  more  and  more  absorbing  as  certain 
very  cunningly  devised  schemes  for  its  exposure 
were  easily  thwarted ;  but  even  this  gave  the 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  I9 

gentleman  a  most  excellent  excuse  for  nagging 
the  ladies  in  regaid  to  feminine  curiosity  and 
lack  of  generalship.  Under  the  circumstances 
it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  everybody 
should  be  strictly  guarded  in  the  phrasing  of 
speech,  still  so  genial  and  good-humored  was 
the  nameless  man  and  so  engaging  was  his  way 
of  evading  or  turning  aside  every  thrust,  that  he 
steadily  won  favor.  Little  Mrs.  Philpot,  whose 
seven  year  old  daughter  (a  bright  and  sweet 
little  child)  had  become  the  pet  of  Hotel  Heli- 
con, was  enthusiastic  in  her  pursuit  of  the 
stranger's  name,  and  at  last  she  hit  upon  a  plan 
that  promised  immediate  success.  She  giggled 
all  to  herself,  like  a  high-school  girl,  instead  of 
like  a  widow  of  thirty,  as  she  contemplated  cer- 
tain victory. 

"I^ow  do  you  think  you  can  remember, 
dear?"  she  said  to  May,  the  child,  after  having 
explained  over  and  over  again  what  she  wished 
her  to  do. 

"Yeth,"  said  May,  who  lisped  charmingly  in 
the  sweetest  of  child  voices. 

"Well,  what  must  you  say?" 

"  I  muth  thay :  Pleathe  write  your — ^your -" 

"Autograph." 

"Yeth,  your  au — to — graph  in  my  album." 

"  That's  right,  autograph,  autograph,  don't 
forget.     Now  let  me  hear  you  say  it." 

"  Pleathe  write  your  autograph  in  my  book." 

Mrs.  Philpot  caught  the  child  to  her  breast 
and  kissed  it  vigorously,  and  not  long  afterward 
little  May  went  forth  to  try  the  experiment. 


20  A  Fo7'tnight  of  Folly, 

She  was  armed  with  her  mother's  autograph 
album.  When  she  approached  her  victim  he 
thought  he  never  had  seen  so  lovely  a  child. 
The  mother  had  not  spared  pains  to  give  most 
effect  to  the  little  thing's  delicate  and  appealing 
beauty  by  an  artistic  arrangement  of  the  shining 
gold  hair  and  by  the  simplest  but  cunningest 
tricks  of  color  and  drapery. 

With  that  bird-like  shyness  so  winning  in  a 
really  beautiful  little  girl,  May  walked  up  to 
the  stranger  and  made  a  funny,  hesitating 
courtesy.  He  looked  at  her  askance,  his  smil- 
ing face  shooting  forth  a  ray  of  tenderness 
along  with  a  gleam  of  shrewd  suspicion,  as  he 
made  out  the  album  in  her  dimpled  little 
hand.  ■ 

"  Good  morning,  little  one,"  he  said  cheerily. 
"  Have  you  come  to  make  a  call?  " 

He  held  oat  both  hands  and  looked  so  kindly 
and  good  that  she  smiled  until  dimples  just  like 
her  mother's  played  over  her  cheeks  and  chin. 
Half  sidewise  she  crept  into  his  arms  and  held 
up  the  book. 

"Pleathe  write  your  photograph  in  my 
book,"  she  murmured. 

He  took  her  very  gently  on  his  knee,  chuck- 
ling vigorously,  his  heavy  jaws  shaking  and 
coloring. 

"  Who  told  you  to  come?  "  he  inquired,  with 
a  guilty  cunning  twinkle  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"  Mama  told  me,"  was  the  prompt  answer. 

Again  the  man  chuckled,  and,  between  the 
shame  be  felt  for  having  betrayed  the  child  and 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  21 

deliglit  at  the  success  of  Ms  perfidy,  lie  grew 
quite  red  in  the  face.  He  took  the  a"utogTaph 
album  and  turned  its  stiff,  ragged-edged  leaves, 
glancing  at  the  names. 

"  Ah,  this  is  your  mama's  book,  is  it  ?  "  he 
went  on. 

"  Yeth  it  is,"  said  May. 

"  And  I  must  write  ni}^  name  in  it  ?  " 

"  No,  your — your " 

"Well  what?" 

"  I  don't  'member." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  stylograph!  c  pen 
and  dashed  a  picturesque  sign  manual  across  a 
page. 

While  the  ink  was  drying  he  tenderly  kissed 
the  child's  forehead  and  then  rested  his  chin  on 
her  bright  hair.  He  could  hear  the  clack  of 
balls  and  mallets  and  the  creak  of  a  lazy  swing 
down  below  on  the  so-called  lawn,  and  a  hum 
of  voices  arose  from  the  veranda.  He  looked 
through  the  open  window  and  saw,  as  in  a 
dream,  blue  peaks  set  against  a  shining  rim 
of  sky  with  a  wisp  of  vultures  slowly  wheeling 
about  in  a  filmy,  sheeny  space. 

"Mama  said  I  muthn't  stay,"  apologized  the 
child,  slipping  down  from  his  knee,  which  she 
had  found  uncomfortably  short. 

He  pulled  himself  together  from  a  diffused 
state  of  revery  and  beamed  upon  her  again  with 
his  cheerful  smile. 

She  turned  near  the  door  and  dropped  another 
comical  little  coiirtes}^,  bobbing  her  curly  head 
till  her  hair  twinkled  like  a  tangle  of  starbeams 


22  A  Fortjtight  of  Folly. 

on  a  brook-ripple,  then  she  darted  away,  book 
in  hand. 

Little  Mrs.  Philpot  snatched  the  album  from 
May,  as  she  ran  to  her,  and  greedily  rustled  the 
leaves  in  search  of  the  new  record,  finding 
which  she  gazed  at  it  while  her  face  irradiated 
every  shade  of  expression  between  sudden 
delight  and  utter  perplexity.  In  fact  she  could 
not  decipher  the  autograph,  although  the  hand- 
writing surely  was  not  bad.  Loath  as  she 
naturally  was  to  sharing  her  secret  with  her 
friends,  curiosity  at  length  prevailed  and  she 
sought  help.  Everybody  in  turn  tried  to  make 
out  the  two  short  words,  all  in  vain  till  Crane, 
by  the  poet's  subtle  vision,  cleared  up  the  mys- 
tery, at  least  to  his  own  satisfaction. 

"Gaspard  Dufour  is  the  name,"  he  asserted, 
with  considerable  show  of  conscious  superiority. 
"  A  Canadian,  I  think.  In  fact  I  imperfectl}^ 
recall  meeting  him  once  at  a  dinner  given  by 
the  Governor  General  to  Lord  Eosenthal  at 
Quebec.     He  writes  plays." 

"Another  romance  out  of  the  whole  cloth  bj) 
the  Bourbon  esthete!"  whispered  the  critic. 
"  There's  no  such  a  Canadian  as  GasparA 
Dufour,  and  besides  the  man's  a  Westerner 
rather  over-Bostonized.  I  can  tell  by  his  voice 
and  his  mixed  manners." 

"  But  Mrs.  Hope  would  know  him,"  suggested 
the  person  addressed.  "  She  meets  all  the  Hub 
literati^  you  know." 

"  Literati !  "  snarled  the  critic,  putting  an 
end  to  further  discussion. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  23 

A  few  minutes  later  Mr.  Gaspard  Dufour 
came  down  and  passed  out  of  the  hotel,  taking 
his  way  into  the  nearest  ravine.  He  wore  a 
very  short  coat  and  a  slouch  hat.  In  his  liand 
he  carried  a  bundle  of  fishing-rod  joints.  A  man 
of  his  build  looks  far  from  dignified  in  such 
dress,  at  best;  but  nothing  could  have  accent- 
uated more  sharply  his  absurd  grotesqueness  of 
appearance  than  the  peculiar  waddling  gait  he 
assumed  as  he  descended  the  steep  place  and 
passed  out  of  sight,  a  fish  basket  bobbing  beside 
him  and  a  red  kerchief  shining  around  his 
throat. 

Everybody  looked  at  his  neighbor  and  smiled 
inquisitively.  Kow  that  they  had  discovered 
his  name,  the  question  arose  :  What  had  Gaspard 
Dufour  ever  done  that  he  should  be  accorded 
the  place  of  honor  in  Hotel  Helicon.  No  one 
(save  Crane,  in  a  shadowy  way)  had  ever  heard 
of  him  before.  No  doubt  they  all  felt  a  little 
twinge  of  resentment ;  but  Dufour,  disappearing 
down  the  ravine,  had  in  some  unaccountable 
way  deepened  his  significance. 


IV. 


Everybody  knows  that  a  mountain  hotel  has 
no  local  color,  no  sympathy  with  its  environ- 
ment, no  gift  of  making  its  guests  feel  that  they 
are  anywhere  in  particular.  It  is  all  very 
delightful  to  be  held  aloft  on  the  shoulder  of  a 
giant  almost  within  reach  of  the  sky  ;  but  the 
charm    of  the    thing   is   not   referable   to    any 


24  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

definite,  visible  cause,  sucli  as  one  readily  bases 
one's  love  of  the  sea-side  on,  or  such  as  accounts 
for  our  delight  in  the  life  of  a  great  city.  No 
matter  how  fine  the  effect  of  clouds  and  peaks 
and  sky  and  gorge,  no  matter  how  pure  and 
exhilarating  the  air,  or  how  blue  the  filmy  deeps 
of  distance,  or  how  mossy  the  rocks,  or  how 
sweet  the  water,  or  how  cool  the  wooded  vales, 
Lhe  hotel  stands  there  in  an  indefinite  way,  with 
no  raison  cVetre  visible  in  its  make-up,  but  with 
an  obvious  impudence  gleaming  from  its  win- 
dows. One  caniiot  deport  one's  self  at  such  a 
place  as  if  born  there.  The  situation  demands — 
nay,  exacts  behavior  somewhat  special  and 
peculiar.  No  lonely  island  in  the  sea  is  quite 
a-s  isolated  and  out  of  the  world  as  the  top  of 
any  mountain,  nor  can  any  amount  of  man's 
effort  soften  in  the  least  the  savage  individuality 
of  mountain  scenery  so  as  to  render  those  high 
places  familiar  or  homelike  or  genuinely  habita- 
ble. Delightful  enough  and  fascinating  enough, 
all  mountain  hotels  surely  are;  but  the  sensa- 
tion that  living  in  one  of  them  induces  is  the 
romantic  consciousness  of  being  in  a  degree 
"out  of  space,  out  of  time."  No  doubt  this 
feeling  was  heightened  and  intensified  in  the 
case  of  the  guests  at  Hotel  Helicon  who  were 
enjoying  the  added  novelty  of  entire  freedom 
from  the  petty  economies  that  usually  dog  the 
footsteps  and  haunt  the  very  dreams  of  the 
average  summer  sojourner.  Ai  all  events,  they 
were  mostly  a  light-hearted  set  given  over  to  a 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  2$ 

freedom  of  speech  and  action  wliicli  would  Lave 
horrified  them  on  any  lower  plane. 

Scarcely  had  Gaspard  Dufour  passed  beyond 
sight  down  the  ravine  in  search  of  a  trout-brook, 
than  he  became  the  subject  of  free  discussion. 
Nothing  strictly  impolite  was  said  about  him  ; 
but  everybody  in  some  way  expressed  amaze- 
ment at  everybody's  ignorance  of  a  man  whose 
importance  was  apparent  and  whose  name 
vaguely  and  tauntingly  suggested  to  each  one 
of  til  em  a  half- recollection  of  having;-  seen  it  in 
connection  with  some  notable  literary  sensation. 

"  Is  there  a  member  of  the  French  institute 
by  the  name  of  Dufour?"  inquired  R.  Hobbs 
Lucas,  the  historian,  thoughtfully  knitting  his 
heavy  brows. 

"  I  am  sure  not,"  said  Hartley  Crane,  "  for  I 
met  most  of  the  members  when  I  was  last  at 
Paris  and  I  do  not  recall  the  name." 

"  There  goes  that  Bourbon  again,"  muttered 
Laurens  Peck,  the  critic  ;  "  if  one  should  mention 
Xenophon,  that  fellow  would  claim  a  personal 
acquaintance  with  him  !  " 

It  was  plain  enough  that  Peck  did  not  value 
Crane  very  highly,  and  Crane  certainly  treated 
Peck  very  coolly.  Miss  J\[oyne,  however,  was 
blissfully  unaware  that  she  w^^s  the  cause  of  this 
trouble,  and  for  that  matter  the  men  themselves 
would  have  denied  with  indignant  fervor  any 
thing  of  the  kind.  Both  of  them  were  stalwart 
and  rather  handsome,  the  Kentuckian  dark  and 
passionate  looking,  the  New  Yorker  fair,  cool 
and  willful   in  appearance.     Miss  Moyne  had 


26  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

been  pleased  witli  them  botli,  without  a  special 
thouglit  of  either,  whilst  they  were  going  rap- 
idly into  the  worry  and  rapture  of  love,  with  no 
care  for  anybody  but  lier. 

She  was  beautiful  and  good,  sweet-voiced, 
gentle,  more  inclined  to  listen  than  to  talk,  and 
so  she  captivated  everybody  from  the  first. 

'•  I  think  it  would  be  quite  interesting,"  she 
said,  "if  it  should  turn  out  that  Mr.  Dufour  is  a 
genuine  foreign  author,  like  Tolstoi  or  Daudet 
or " 

"Eealists,  and  nobody  but  realists,"  interposed 
Mrs.  Philpot ;  "  why  don't  you  say  Zola,  and 
have  done  with  it?" 

"  Well,  Zola,  then,  if  it  must  be,"  Miss  Moyne 
responded  ;  "for,  barring  my  American  breeding 
and  my  Southern  conservatism,  I  am  nearly  in 
sympathy  with — no,  not  tliat  exactly,  but  we 
are  so  timid.  I  should  like  to  feel  a  change  in 
tlie  literary  air." 

"Oh,  you  talk  just  as  Arthur  Selby  writes  in 
his  critical  papers.  He's  all  the  time  trying  to 
prove  that  fiction  is  truth  and  that  truth  is  fic- 
tion. He  lauds  Zola's  and  Dostoieftsky's  filthy 
novels  to  the  skies ;  but  in  his  own  novels  he's  as 
prudish  and  Puritanish  as  if  he  had  been  born 
on  Plymouth  Eock  instead  of  on  an  Illinois 
prairie." 

"  I  wonder  why  he  is  not  a  guest  here,"  some 
one  remarked.  "  I  should  have  thought  that 
our  landlord  would  have  had  liim  at  all  haz- 
ards.     Just   now    Selby   is  monopolizing    the 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly,  2J 

field  of  American  fiction.  In  fact  I  think  he 
claims  the  earth." 

"It  is  so  easy  to  assume,"  said  Guilford  Fer- 
ris, whose  romances  always  commanded  eulogy 
from  the  press,  but  invariably  tell  dead  on  the 
market;  "but  I  am  told  that  Selby  makes 
almost  nothing  from  the  sales  of  his  books." 

"But  the  magazines  pay  him  handsomely," 
said  Miss  Mo\me. 

"Yes,  they  do,"  replied  Ferris,  pulling  his 
long  broTSTi  mustache  reflectively,  "and  I  can't 
see  why.  He  really  is  not  popular  ;  there  is  no 
enthusiasm  for  his  fic*:ion." 

"It's  a  mere  vogue,  begotten  by  the  critics," 
said  Hartley  Crane.  "  Criticism  is  at  a  very 
low  ebb  in  America.  Our  critics  are  all  either 
ignorant  or  given  over  to  putting  on  English 
and  French  airs." 

Ferris  opened  his  eyes  in  a  quiet  way  and 
glanced  at  Peck  who,  however,  did  not  appear 
to  notice  the  remark. 

"  There's  a  set  of  them  in  Boston  and  New 
York,"  Crane  went  on,  "who  watch  the  Revue 
de  Deux  Mondes  and  the  London  Atheneum^ 
ready  to  take  the  cue  from  them.  Even  Amer- 
ican books  must  stand  or  fall  by  the  turn  of 
the  foreign  thumb." 

"That  is  a  yqtj  ancient  grumble,"  said  Fer- 
ris, in  atone  indicative  of  impartial  indifference. 

"Take  these  crude,  loose,  awkward,  almost 
obscene  Russian  novels,"  continued  Crane,  "  and 
see  what  a  furor  the  critics  of  Xew  York  and 
Boston    have    fermented   in    their    behalf,    all 


28  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

because  it  chanced  that  a  coterie  of  Parisian  lit- 
erary roues  fancied  the  filthy  imaginings  of  Dos- 
toieff'sky  and  the  raw  vulgarity  of  Tolstoi. 
What  would  they  say  of  yoii^  Ferris,  if  you 
should  write  so  low  and  dirty  a  story  as  Grime 
and  Its  Punishment  by  Dostoieffsky  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  and,  begging  your  grace, 
I  don't  care  a  straw,"  Ferris  replied ;  "  the  pub- 
lishers would  steal  all  my  profits  in  any  event." 

"  Do  you  really  believe  that?  "  inquired  Peck, 

"  Believe  it  ?  I  know  it,"  said  Ferris.  ''  When 
did  you  ever  know  of  a  publisher  advertising  a 
book  as  in  its  fiftieth  thousand  so  long  as  the 
author  had  any  royalty  on  the  sales?  The  only 
book  of  mine  that  ever  had  a  run  was  one  I 
sold  outright  in  the  manuscript  to  George  Dun- 
kirk &  Co.,  who  publish  all  my  works.  That 
puerile  eftbrt  is  now  in  its  ninetieth  thousand, 
while  the  best  of  the  other  six  has  not  yet  shown 
up  two  thousand  !     Do  you  catch  the  point  ?  " 

"  But  what  difference  can  printing  a  statement 
of  the  books  sold  make,  anyway?"  innocently 
inquired  Miss  Moyne 

Ferris  laughed. 

"  All  the  difference  in  the  world,"  he  said ; 
*'  the  publisher  would  have  to  account  to  the 
author  for  all  those  thousands,  don't  you  see." 

"But  they  have  to  account,  anyhow,"  replied 
Miss  Moyne,  with  a  perplexed  smile. 

"Account ! "  exclaimed  Ferris,  contemptuously; 
"  account !  yes,  they  have  to  account." 

"But  they  account  to  me,"  Miss  Moyne  gently 
insisted. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  29 

"Who  are  your  publisliers?  "  lie  demanded, 

"George  Dunkirk  &  Co.,"  was  tlie  answer. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I'll  wager  you  anything  I 
can  come  within  twenty  of  guessing  the  sales  up 
to  date  of  your  book.  It  has  sold  just  eleven 
hundred  and  forty  copies." 

She  laughed  merrily  and  betrayed  the  danger- 
ous closeness  of  his  guess  by  coloring  a  little. 

"Oh,  its  invariably  just  eleven  hundred  and 
forty  copies,  no  matter  what  kind  of  a  book  it 
is,  or  what  publisher  has  it,"  he  continued  ;  "  I've 
investigated  and  have  settled  the  matter." 

The  historian  was  suddenly  thoughtful,  httle 
Mrs.  Philpot  appeared  to  be  making  some  ab- 
struse calculation,  Crane  was  silently  gazing  at 
the  ground  and  Peck,  with  grim  humor  in  his 
small  eyes,  remarked  that  eleven  hundred  and 
forty  was  a  pretty  high  average  upon  the  whole. 

Just  at  this  point  a  figure  appeared  in  the  lit- 
tle roadway  where  it  made  its  last  turn  lapsing 
from  the  wood  toward  the  hotel.  A  rather  tall, 
slender  and  angular  young  woman,  bearing  a 
red  leather  bag  in  one  hand  and  a  blue  silk  um- 
brella in  the  other,  strode  forward  with  the  pace 
of  a  tragedienne.  She  wore  a  bright  silk  dress, 
leaf-green  in  color,  and  a  black  bonnet,  of  nearly 
the  Salvation  Army  pattern,  was  set  far  back  on 
her  head,  giving  full  play  to  a  mass  of  short, 
fine,  loosely  tumbled  yellow  hair. 

She  was  very  much  out  of  breath  from  her 
walk  up  the  mountain,  but  there  was  a  plucky 
smile  on  her  rather  sallow  face  and  an  enterpris- 
ing gleam  in  her  light  eyes. 


30  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

She  walked  right  into  the  hotel,  as  if  she  had 
always  lived  there,  and  they  heard  her  talking 
volubly  to  the  servant  as  she  was  following  him 
to  a  room. 

Everybody  felt  a  waft  of  free  Western  air  and 
knew  that  Hotel  Helicon  had  received  another 
interesting  guest,  original  if  not  typical,  with 
qualities  that  soon  must  make  themselves 
respected  in  a  degree. 

"  Walked  from  the  station  ?  "  Mrs.  Philpot 
ventured,  in  querulous,  though  kindly  interroga- 
tion. 

"  Up  the  mountain?  "  Miss  Moyne  added,  with 
a  deprecatory  inflection. 

"  And  carried  that  bag  1  "  exclaimed  all  the 
rest. 


Gaspard  Dufour,  whose  accumulations  ot 
adipose  tissue  appeared  to  serve  him  a  good 
turn,  as  he  descended  the  steep,  rocky  ravine, 
hummed  a  droll  tune  which  was  broken  at  inter- 
vals by  sundry  m^issteps  and  down-sittings  and 
side-^vise  bumps  against  the  jutting  crags.  He 
perspired  freely,  mopping  his  brow  meantime 
with  a  vast  silk  kerchief  that  hung  loosely 
about  his  short  neck. 

The  wood  grew  denser  as  he  descended  and  a 
damp,  mouldy  odor  pervaded  the  spaces  under- 
neath the  commingling  boughs  of  the  oaks, 
pines,  cedars,  and  sassafras.  Here  and  there  a 
lizard  scampered  around  a  tree- hole  or  darted 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  3I 

un(1er  the  fallen  leaves.  Overhead  certain 
shadowy  fittings  betrayed  the  presence  of  an 
occasional  small  bird,  demurely  going  about  its 
business  of  food-getting.  The  main  elements 
of  the  surroundings,  however,  were  gloom  and 
silence.  The  breeze- currents  astir  in  the  valley 
and  rippling  over  the  gray  peaks  of  Mt.  Boab 
could  not  enter  the  leafy  chambers  of  this 
wooded  gorge.  Heat  of  a  peculiarly  sultry  sort 
seemed  to  be  stored  here,  for  as  Dufour  pro- 
ceeded he  began  at  length  to  gasp  for  breath, 
and  it  was  with  such  relief  as  none  but  the  suf- 
focating can  fully  appreciate,  that  he  emerged 
into  an  open  space  surrounded,  almost,  with 
butting  hmestone  cliffs,  but  cut  across  by  a 
noisy  little  stream  that  went  bubbling  down 
into  the  valley  through  a  cleft  bedecked  with 
ferns  and  sprinkled  with  perennial  dew  from  a 
succession  of  gentle  cascades.  The  ideal  trout- 
brook  was  this,  so  far  as  appearances  could  go. 
At  the  foot  of  each  tiny  water-fall  was  a  swirl- 
ing pool,  semi -opaque,  giving  forth  emerald 
flashes  and  silver  glints,  and  bearing  little  cones 
of  creamy  foam  round  and  round  on  its  bosom. 
A  thousand  noises, every  one  a  water-note,  rising 
all  along  the  line  of  the  brook's  broken  current, 
clashed  together  with  an  effect  like  that  of  hear- 
ing a  far-off  multitude  applauding  or  some 
distant  army  rushing  on  a  charge. 

So  much  out  of  breath  and  so  delusred  with 
perspiration  was  Dufour  that  he  flung  himself 
upon  the  ground  beside  the  brook  and  lay 
there  panting  and  mopping  his  face.     Overhead 


32  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

the  bit  of  sky  was  like  turquoise,  below  a  slen- 
der glimpse  of  the  valley  shone  between  the 
rock  walls,  like  a  sketch  subdued  almost  to 
monochrome  of  crepuscular  purple.  A  fitful 
breath  of  cool  air  fell  into  the  place,  fanning 
the  man's  almost  purple  cheeks  and  forehead, 
while  a  wood-thrush,  whose  liquid  voice  might 
have  been  regarded  as  part  of  the  water-tumult, 
sang  m  a  thorn  tree  hard  by. 

In  a  half-reclining  attitude,  Dufour  gave 
himself  over  to  the  delicious  effect  of  all  this, 
indulging  at  the  same  time  in  the  impolite  and 
ridiculous,  but  quite  Shakespearian,  habit  of 
soliloquizing. 

"Jingo!"  he  remarked,  "Jingo!  but  isn't  this 
a  daisy  prospect  for  trout!  If  those  pools 
aren't  full  of  the  beauties,  then  there's  nothing 
in  Waltonian  lore  and  life  isn't  worth  living. 
Ha!  Jingo!  there  went  one  clean  above  the 
water — a  ten  ouncer,  at  least!" 

He  sprang  at  his  rod  as  if  to  break  it  to  pieces, 
and  the  facility  with  which  he  fitted  the  joints 
and  the  reel  and  run  the  line  and  tied  the 
cast  was  really  a  wonder, 

"I  knew  they  were  here,"  he  muttered,  "just 
as  soon  as  I  laid  my  eyes  on  the  water.  Who 
ever  did  see  such  another  brook!" 

At  the  third  cast  of  the  fly,  a  brown  hackle, 
by  the  way,  up  came  a  trout  with  a  somersault 
and  a  misty  gleam  of  royal  purple  and  silver, 
attended  by  a  spray  of  water  and  a  short  bub- 
bling sound.  Dufour  struck  deftty,  hooking  the 
beautiful  fish  very  insecurely  through  the  edge 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  33 

of  the  lower  lip.  Immediately  the  reel  began  to 
sing  and  the  rod  to  quiver,  while  Dufour's  eyes 
glared  almost  savagely  and  his  lips  pursed  witn 
comical  intensity. 

EoLind  and  round  flew  the  tront,  now  rushing 
to  the  bottom  of  the  pool,  now  whisking  under 
a  projecting  ledge  and  anon  flinging  itself  clean 
above  the  water  and  shaking  itself  convul- 
sively. 

The  angler  was  led  hither  and  thither  by  his 
active  prey,  the  exercise  bedewing  his  face  again 
with  perspiration,  whilst  his  feet  felt  the  cool 
bath  of  water  and  the  soothing  embrace  of 
tangled  water-grass.  The  mere  switch  of  a 
bamboo  rod,  bent  almost  into  a  loop,  shook  like 
a  rush  in  a  wind. 

Dufour  was  ill  prepared  to  formulate  a  polite 
response  when,  at  the  height  of  his  sport,  a 
gentle  but  curiously  earnest  voice  exclaimed : 

"Snatch  'im  out,  snatch  'im  out,  dog  gone 
yer  clumsy  hide !  Snatch  'im  out,  er  I'll  do  it 
for  ye!" 

The  trout  must  have  heard,  for  as  the  angler 
turned  to  get  a  hasty  glance  at  the  stranger,  up 
it  leaped  and  by  a  desperate  shake  broke  the 
snell. 

"Confound  you!"  cried  Dufour,  his  face  red- 
der than  ever,  "  Confound  your  meddlesome 
tongue,  why  didn't  you  keep  still  till  I  landed 
him?" 

There  was  a  tableau  set  against  the  gray, 
lichen-bossed  rocks.  Two  men  glaring  at  each 
other.     The  new-comer   was    a  tall,   athletic, 


34  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

brown-faced  mountaineer,  bearing  a  gun  and 
wearing  two  heavy  revolvers.  He  towered 
above  Dufonr  and  gazed  down  upon  him  as  if 
about  to  execute  him.  The  latter  did  not  quail, 
but  grew  angrier  instead. 

''  ^ou  ouQfht  to  have  better  sense   than  to  in- 

o 

terfere  with  my  sport  in  such  a  way  !  Who  are 
you,  anyway?"  he  cried  in  a  hot,  fierce  tone. 

The  mountaineer  stood  silent  for  a  moment, 
as  if  collecting  words  enough  for  what  he  felt 
like  saying,  then: 

"  See  yer,"  he  drawled,  rather  musically,  "  ef 
I  take  ye  by  the  scruff"  o'  yer  neck  an'  the  heel 
o'  yer  stockin'  an'  jest  chuck  ye  inter  thet  pud- 
dle, ye'll  begin  to  surmise  who  I  air,  ye  saucy 
little  duck-legged  minny-catcher,  you  !  " 

Dufour,  remembering  his  long  training  years 
ago  at  the  Gentlemen's  Glove- Club,  squared  him- 
se±f  with  fists  in  position,  having  flung  aside  his 
tackle.  In  his  righteous  rage  he  forgot  that  his 
adversary  was  not  oiily  his  superior  in  stature 
but  also  heavily  armed. 

"Well,  thet'  ther'  do  beat  me!"  said  the 
mountaineer,  with  an  incredulous  ring  in  his 
voice.  "  The  very  idee  !  W'y  ye  little  agger- 
vatin'  banty  rooster,  a  puttin'  up  yer  props  at 
me !  W'y  I'll  jest  eternally  and  everlastin'ly 
wring  ver  neck  an'  swob  the  face  o'  nature  wi' 
ye!"  " 

What  followed  was  about  as  indescribable  as  a 
whirlwind  in  dry  grass.  The  two  men  appeared 
to  coalesce  for  a  single  wild,  whirling,  resound- 
ing instant,  and  then  the  mountaineer    went 


A  Forhiis^Jif  of  Folly.  35 

over  headlong  into  the  middle  of  the  pool  with  a 
great  plash  and  disappeared.  Dufour,  in  a  truly 
gladiatorial  attitude,  gazed  fiercely  at  the  large 
dimple  in  which  his  antagonist  was  buried  for 
the  instant,  but  out  of  which  he  presently  pro- 
jected himself  with  great  promptness,  then,  as  a 
new  thouo-ht  came  to  him,  he  seized  the  fallen 
gun  of  the  mountaineer,  cocked  it  and  leveled 
it  upon  its  owner.  There  was  a  peculiar  mean- 
ing in  his  words  as  he  stormed  out : 

"  Lie  down  !  down  with  you,  or  I  blow  a  hole 
clean  through  you  instantly  !  " 

Promptly  enough  the  mountaineer  lay  down 
until  the  water  rippled  around  his  chin  and 
floated  his  flaxen  beard.  Some  moments  of 
peculiar  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  the 
lapsing  gnrgle  and  murmur  of  the  brook. 

Dufour,  with  arms  as  steady  as  iron  bars,  kept 
the  heavy  gun  bearing  on  the  gasping  face  of 
the  unwilling  bather,  whilst  at  the  same  time 
he  was  dangerously  fingering  the  trigger.  The 
stout,  short  figure  really  had  a  muscular  and 
doughty  air  and  the  heavy  face  certainly  looked 
warlike. 

"  Stranger,  a  seein'  'at  yeVe  got  the  drap  onto 
me,  'spose  we  swear  off  an'  make  up  friends?  " 
The  man  in  the  water  said  this  at  length,  in  the 
tone  of  one  presenting  a  suggestion  of  doubtful 
propriety. 

"  Don't  hardly  think  you've  cooled  off  sufii- 
ciently,  do  you  ?  "  responded  Dufour. 

''  This  here's  spring  warter,  ye  must  'mem- 
ber." offered  the  mountaineer. 


36  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

The  gun  was  beginning  to  tire  Dufour's  arms. 

•'  Well,  do  you  knock  under  ?  "  lie  inquired, 
still  carelessly  fumbling  the  trigger. 

"Great  mind  ter  say  yes,"  was  the  shivering 
response. 

"  Oh,  take  your  time  to  consider,  I'm  in  no 
hurry,"  said  Dufour. 

If  the  man  in  the  water  could  have  known 
how  the  supple  but  of  late  uDtrained  arms  of 
the  man  on  shore  were  aching,  the  outcome 
might  have  been  different;  bat  the  bath  was 
horribly  cold  and  the  gun's  muzzle  kept  its 
bearing  right  on  the  bather's  eye. 

"I  give  in, ye've  got  me,  stranger,"  he  at  last 
exclaimed. 

Dufour  was  mightily  relieved  as  he  put  down 
the  gun  and  watched  his  dripping  and  shivering 
antagonist  wade  out  of  the  cold  pool.  The  men 
looked  at  each  other  curiously. 

"  Ye're  the  dog  gone'dest  man  'at  ever  I  see," 
remarked  the  mountaineer ;  "  who  air  ye,  any- 
how?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  pretty  good  fellow,  if  you  take 
me  on  the  right  tack,"  said  Dufour. 

The  other  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
inquired  : 

"  Air  ye  one  o'  them  people  up  at  the  tavern 
on  the  mounting  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Aboardin' there?" 

"Yes." 

"For  all  summer?" 

"Possibly." 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  'St 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  during  which,  the 
water  trickled  ofif  the  mountaineer's  clothes  and 
ran  over  the  little  stones  at  his  feet. 

"Goin'  ter  make  fun  o'  me  when  je  git  up 
thar?"  the  catechism  was  at  length  resumed. 
Dufour  laughed. 

"I  could  tell  a  pretty  good  thing  on  you," 
he  answered,  taking  a  sweeping  observation  of 
the  stalwart  fellow's  appearance  as  he  stood 
there  with  his  loose  jeans  trousers  and  blue 
cotton  shirt  clinging  to  his  shivering  limbs. 

"  See  yer,  now,"  said  the  latter,  in  a  wheed- 
ling tone,  and  wringing  his  ligh.t,  thin  beard 
with  one  sinewy  dark  hand,  "  see  yer,  now,  I'd 
like  for  ye  not  ter  do  thet,  strenger." 

"Why?" 

""Well,"  said  the  mountaineer,  after  some 
picturesque  hesitation  and  faltering,  "  'cause  I 
hev  a  'quaintance  o'  mine  up  ther'  at  thet 
tavern." 

"  Indeed,  have  you?  "Who  is  it?  " 

"  Mebbe  ye  mought  be  erquainted  with  Miss 
Sarah.  Anna  Crabb  ?  " 

"No.'' 

"Well,  she's  up  ther',  she  stayed  all  night  at 
our  house  las'  nipht  an'  went  on  up  ther'  this 
mornin' ;  she's  a  literary  woman  an'  purty,  an' 
smart,  an'  a  migbty  much  of  a  talker." 

"  Ugli ! " 

"Jest  tell  her  'at  ye  met  me  down  yer,  an' 
'at  I'm  tol'ble  well ;  but  don't  say  nothin'  'bout 
this  'ere  duckin'  'at  ye  gi'  me,  will  ye  ?  " 

"Oh,   of  course,  that's  all  right,"  Dufour  has- 


38  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

tened  to  say,  feeling  an  indescribable  thrill  of 
sympathy  for  the  man. 

"Yer's  my  hand,  strenger,  an'  w'en  AYesley 
Tolliver  gives  a  feller  his  hand  hit  means  all 
there  air  ter  mean,"  exclaimed  the  latter,  as 
warmly  as  his  condition  would  permit,  "  an' 
w'en  ye  need  er  friend  in  these  parts  jest  come 
ter  me." 

He  shouldered  his  gun,  thereupon,  and 
remarking  that  he  might  as  well  be  going, 
strode  away  over  a  spur  of  the  mountain,  his 
clothes  still  dripping  and  sticking  close  to  his 
muscular  limbs.  Dufour  found  his  rod  broken 
and  his  reel  injured,  by  having  felt  the  weight 
of  Wesley  To! liver's  foot,  and  so  he  too  turned 
to  retrace  his  steps. 

Such  an  adventure  could  not  fail  to  gain  in 
spectacular  grotesqueness  as  it  took  its  place  in 
the  memory  and  imagination  of  Dufour.  He 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  seeing  such  things  on 
the  stage  and  of  condemning  them  out  of  hand 
as  the  baldest  melodramatic  nonsense,  so  that 
now  he  could  not  fairly  realize  the  matter  as 
something  that  had  taken  place  in  his  life. 

He  was  very  tired  and  hungry  when  he 
reached  Hotel  Helicon. 

YI. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  walked  all  the  way  up  the  moun- 
tain from  the  railroad  depot,"  explained  the 
young  woman  whose  arrival  we  chronicled  in 
another  chapter,  "but  I  stopped  over  night  at  a 
cabin   on   the   way  and  discovered  some  just 


4  Fortnight  of  Folly.  39 

delightful  caaracters — the  Tollivers — ^regular 
Cracldock  sort  of  people,  an  old  lady  and  her 
son." 

By  some  method  known  only  to  herself  she 
had  put  herself  upon  a  speaking-plane  with 
Dufour,  who,  as  she  approached  him,  was  stand- 
ing in  an  angle  of  the  wide  wooden  veranda 
waiting  for  the  moon  to  rise  ©ver  the  distant 
peaks  of  the  eastern  m.ountains. 

"I  saw  Mr.  Tolliver  to-day  while  whip- 
ping a  brook  down  here,"  said  he,  turning  to 
look  her  squarely  in  the  face. 

"Oh,  did  you!  Isn't  he  a  virile,  villainous, 
noble,  and  altogether  melodramatic  looking 
man?  I  wish  there  was  some  one  here  who 
could  sketch  him  for  me.  But,  say,  Mr. 
Pufour,  what  do  you  mean,  please,  when  you 
speak  o^ whi]_iping  a  brook?" 

She  took  from  her  pocket  a  little  red  note- 
book and  a  pencil  as  he  promptly  responded  : 
*' Whipping  a  brook?  oli,  that's  angler's  non- 
sense, it  means  casting  the  line  into  the  water, 
you  know." 

"That's  funny,"  she  remarked,  making  a 
note. 

She  was  taller  than  Dufour,  and  so  slender 
and  angular  that  in  comparison  with  his  exces- 
sive plumpness  she  looked  gaunt  and  bony.  In 
speaking  he.r  lips  made  all  sorts  of  wild  contor- 
tions showing  her  uneven  teeth  to  great  effect, 
and  the  extreme  rapidity  of  her  utterance  gave 
an  explosive  emphasis  to  her  voice.  Over  her 
forehead,   which  projected,  a  fluffy  mass  of  pale 


40  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

yellow  hair  sprang  almost  fiercely  as  if  to 
attack  her  scared  and  receding  chin. 

"  You  are  from  Michigan,  I  believe,  Miss 
Crabb,"  remarked  Dufour. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  ! "  she  answered,  growing  red 
in  the  face,  "  No,  indeed.  I  am  from  Indiana, 
from  Eingville,  associate  editor  of  the  Star^ 

"  Pardon,  I  meant  Indiana.  Of  course  I  knew 
you  were  not  from  Michigan." 

"  Thanks,"  with  a  little  laugh  and  a  shrug, 
"  I  am  glad  you  see  the  point." 

"  I  usually  do — a  little  late,"  he  remarked 
complacently. 

"  You  are  from  Boston,  then,  I  infer,"  she 
glibly  responded. 

"  Not  precisely,"  he  said,  with  an  approving 
laugh,  "  but  I  admit  that  I  have  some  Bostonian 
qualities." 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  she  was 
drooping  over  him,  so  to  say,  and  he  was 
sturdily  looking  up  into  her  bright,  insistent 
face. 

"  What  a  group  !  "  said  Crane  to  Mrs.  Bridges, 
a  New  York  fashion  editor.  "  I'd  give  the 
best  farm  in  Kentucky  (so  far  as  my  title  goes) 
for  a  photograph  of  it !  Doesn't  she  appear  to 
be  just  about  to  peck  out  his  eyes  !  " 

"Your  lofty  imagination  plays  you  fantastic 
tricks,"  said  Mrs.  Bridges.  "  Is  she  the  famous 
Western  lady    reporter  ?  " 

"  The  same,  of  the  Ringville  Star.  I  met  her 
at  the   Cincinnati   convention.     It   was   there 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  41 

that  Bascom  of  the  Bugle  called  her  a  bag  of 
gimlets,  because  she  bored  him  so." 

"  Oh  !  " 

This  exclamation  ''A'as  not  in  response  to  what 
Crane  had  said,  but  it  was  an  involuntary  tribute 
to  the  moon-flower  just  flaring  into  bloom 
between  twin  peaks  lying  dusky  and  heavy 
against  the  mist  of  silver  and  gold  that  veiled 
the  sweet  sky  beyond.  A  semi-circle  of  pale 
straw-colored  fire  gleamed  in  the  lowest  angle 
of  the  notch  and  sent  up  long,  wavering  lines  of 
light  almost  to  the  zenith,  paling  the  strongest 
stars  and  intensifying  the  shadows  in  the  moun- 
tain gorges  and  valleys.  Grim  as  angry  gods, 
the  pines  stood  along  the  slopes,  as  if  gloomily 
contem. plating  some  dark  scheme  of  vengeance. 

"  A  real  Sapphic,"  said  Crane,  dropping  into 
a  poetical  tone,  as  an  elocutionist  does  when  he 
is  hungry  for  an  opportunity  to  recite  a  favorite 
sketch. 

"Why  a  Sapphic?"  inquired  the  matter-of- 
fact  fashion-editor. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  remember  that  fragment,  that 
glorious  picture  Sappho's  divine  genius  has 
made  for  us — " 

He  quoted  some  Greek. 

"  About  as  divine  as  Choctaw  or  Kickapoo," 
she  said.  "I  understand  the  moon-shine  better. 
In  fact  T  have  a  sincere  contempt  for  all  this 
transparent  clap-trap  you  poets  and  critics 
indulge  in  Avhen  you  got  upon  your  Greek  hobby. 
Divine  Sappho,  indeed !  A  lot  of  bald  bits  of 


42  A  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

jargon  made  famous  by  the  comments  of  fogies. 
Let's  look  at  the  moon,  please,  and  be  sincere." 

"  Sincere  V 

"Yes,  you  know  very  well  that  if  you  had 
written  the  Sapphic  fragments  the  critics 
would " 

''The  critics!  What  of  them?  They  are  a 
set  of  disappointed  poetasters  themselves.  Blind 
with  rage  at  their  own  failures,  they  snap  right 
and  left  without  rhyme  or  reason.  Now  there's 
Peck,  a  regular " 

''  Well,  sir,  a  regular  whaff"  very  coolly 
demanded  the  critic  who  had  stepped  forth  from 
a  shadowy  angle  and  now  stood  fac'lng  Crane. 

"  A  regular  star-gazer,"  said  M^s.  Bridges. 
"  Tell  us  why  the  planets  yonder  all  look  so 
ghastly  through  the  shimmering  moonlight." 

Peck,  without  reply,  turned  and  walked  away. 

"  Is  he  offended?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  he  gives  offence,  but  can  not  take  it." 

Mrs.  Bridges  grew  silent. 

"  We  were  speaking  of  Sappho,"  observed 
Crane,  again  gliding  into  an  elocutionary  mood. 
"  I  have  translated  the  fragment  that  I  repeated 
a  while  ago.     Let  me  give  it  to  you. 

"When  on  the  dusky  violet  sky 
The  full  flower  of  the  moon  blooms  high 
The  stars  turn  pale  and  die !" 

Just  then  Miss  Moyne,  dressed  all  in  white, 
floated  by  on  Peck's  arm,  uttering  a  silvery  gust 
of  laughter  in  response  to  a  cynical  observation  of 
the  critic. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly,  43 

"  What  a  lovely  girl  she  is,"  said  Mrs. 
Bridges.  "Mr.  Peck  shows  fine  critical  acumen 
in  being  very  fond  of  her." 

Crane  was  desperately  silent.  "  He's  a  hand- 
some man,  too,  and  I  suspect  it's  a  genuine  love 
affair,"  Mrs.  Bridges  went  on,  fanning  herself 
complacently.  Back  and  forth,  w^alking  slowly 
and  conversing  in  a  soft  minor  key,  save  when 
now  and  then  Miss  Mojme  laughed  melodiously, 
the  promenaders  passed  and  repassed.  Peck 
never  deigning  to  glance  toward  Crane,  who  had 
forgotten  both  Sappho  and  the  moon.  Miss 
Moyne  did,  however,  once  or  twice  turn  her  eyes 
upon  the  silent  poet. 

"  Oh,"  wen^  on  Miss  Crabb,  filling  Dnfour's 
ears  with  tlie  hurried  din  of  her  words,  "Oh, 
I'm  going  to  w^rite  a  novel  about  this  place.  I 
never  saw  a  better  chance  for  local  color,  real 
transcripts  from  life,  original  scenes  and  genuine 
romance  all  tumbled  together.  Don't  you  think 
I  might  do  it  ?  " 

"  It  does  appear  tempting,"  said  Dufour. 
"There's  Tolliver  for  instance,  a  genuine  Chil- 
howee  moonshiner."  He  appeared  to  laugh 
inwardly  as  he  spoke.  Indeed  he  heard  the 
plash  of  water  and  the  dripping,  shivering 
mountaineer  stood  forth  in  his  memory  down 
there  in  the  gorge. 

"A  moonshiner!"  gasped  Miss  Crabb,  flut- 
tering the  leaves  of  her  note-book  and  Avrit- 
ing  by  moonlight  with  a  celerity  that  amazed 
Dufour. 


44  ^  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

"Potentially,  at  least,"  he  replied  evasively. 
"  He  looks  like  one  and  he  don't  like   water." 

"  If  he  does  turn  out  to  be  a  real  moonshiner," 
Miss  Crabb  proceeded  reflectively  to  say,  "it 
will  be  just  too  delicious  for  anything.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you,  confidentially,  Mr.  Dufour, 
that  I  am  to  write  some  letters  while  here  to  the 
Chicago  Daily  Lightning  Express.  So  I'd  take 
it  as  a  great  favor  if  you'd  give  me  all  the  points 
you  get." 

"  That's  interesting,"  he  said,  with  a  keen 
scrutiny  of  her  face  for  a  second.  "I  shall  be 
glad  to  be  of  assistance  to  you." 

He  made  a  movement  to  go,  but  lingered  to 
say :  "  Pray  give  me  all  the  points,  too,  will 
you?" 

"  Oh,  are  you  a  journalist  too?  "  slie  inquired, 
breathlessly  hanging  over  him,  "What  pa- 
per—" 

"I'm  not  much  of  anything,"  he  hurriedly 
interposed,  "  but  I  like  to  know  what  is  going 
on,  that's  all." 

He  walked  away  without  further  excuse  and 
went  up  to  his  room. 

"  I've  got  to  watch  him,"  soliloquized  Miss 
Crabb,  "  or  he'll  get  the  scoop  of  all  the  news. 
Give  him  points,  indeed  I  Maybe  so,  but  not 
till  after  I've  sent  them  to  the  Lightning  Ex- 
press !  I'll  keep  even  with  him,  or  know  the 
reason  why." 

It  was  a  grand  panorama  that  the  climbing 
moon  lighted  "up  all  around  Mount  Boab,  a  vast 
billowy  sea  of  gloom  and  sheen.     Here  were 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  45 

shining  cliiFs,  tliere  dusky  gulches ;  yonder  the 
pines  glittered  like  steel-armed  sentinels  on  the 
hill-tops,  whilst  lower  down  they  appeared  to 
skulk  like  cloaked  assassins.  Shadows  came 
and  went,  now  broad- winged  and  wavering, 
again  slender  and  swift  as  the  arrows  of  death. 
The  hotel  was  bright  within  and  without. 
Some  one  was  at  the  grand  piano  in  the  hall 
making  rich  music — a  fragment  from  Beetho- 
ven,— and  a  great  horned  owl  down  the  ravine 
was  booming  an  effective  counterpoint. 

Crane  stood  leaning  on  the  railing  of  the  veranda 
and  scowling  savagely  as  Peck  and  Miss  Moyne 
continued  to  promenade  and  converse.  He  was, 
without  doubt,  considering  sinister  things.  Mrs. 
Bridges,  finding  him  entirely  unsympathetic, 
went  to  join  Miss  Crabb,  who  was  alone  where 
she  had  been  left  by  Dufour.  Meantime,  up  in 
his  room,  with  his  chair  tilted  far  back  and  his 
feet  thrust  out  over  the  sill  of  an  open  window, 
Dufour  was  smoking  a  fragrant  Cuban  cigar, 
(fifty  cents  at  retail)  and  alternating  smiles  with 
frowns  as  he  contemplated  his  surroundings. 

"  Authors,"  he  thought,  "  are  the  silhest,  the 
vainest,  and  the  most  impractical  lot  of  human 
geese  that  ever  were  plucked  for  their  valuable 
feathers.  And  newspaper  people!  Humph!" 
He  chuckled  till  his  chin  shook  upon  his  im- 
maculate collar.  "  Just  the  idea,  now,  of  that 
young  woman  asking  me  to  fm^nish  her  with 
points ! " 

There  was  something  almost  jocund  blent 
with  his   air  of  solid   self-possession,  and  he 


46  "A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

smoked  the  precious  cigars  one  after  another 
with  prodigal  indifference  and  yet  with  the  per- 
fect grace  of  him  to  the  manner  born. 

"Hotel  Helicon  on  Mt.  Boab!"  he  repeated, 
and  then  betook  himself  to  bed. 

vn. 

Some  people  are  born  to  find  things  out — to 
overhear,  to  reach  a  place  just  at  the  moment  in 
which  an  event  comes  to  pass  there — born 
indeed,  with  the  news-gatherer's  instinct  per- 
fectly developed.  Miss  Crabb  was  one  of  these. 
How  she  chanced  to  over-hear  some  low-spoken 
but  deadly  sounding  words  that  passed  between 
Peck  and  Crane,  it  would  be  hard  to  say;  still 
she  overheard  them^  and  her  heart  jumped 
almost  into  her  mouth.  It  was  a  thrillingly  dra- 
matic passage,  there  under  the  heavy-topped  oak 
by  the  west  veranda  in  the  gloom. 

"  Villain !"  exclaimed  Crane,  in  the  hissing 
voice  of   a  young   tragedy-player   at   rehearsal, 

"  Villain !  you  shall  not  escape  me.  Defend 
yourself !" 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Peck,  ''  you  talk  like  a  fool. 
I  don't  want  to  fight!  What's  that  you've  got 
in  your  hand?" 

"  A  sword,  you  cowardly  craven !" 

"  You  call  me  a  coward !  If  I  had  a  good 
club  I  should  soon  show  you  what  I  could  do,  you 
sneaking  assassin !'' 

More  words  and  just  as  bitter  followed,  till  at 
last  a  fight  was  agreed  upon  to  take  place  im- 
mediately, at  a  certain  point  on  the  verge  of  a 


A  Fortnight  of  FoUy,  iiff 

cliff  not  far  away.  There  were  to  be  no  seconds 
and  the  meeting  was  to  end  in  the  death  of  one 
or  both  of  the  combatants. 

To  Miss  Crabb  all  this  had  a  sound  and  an 
appearance  as  weird  as  anything  in  the  wildest 
romance  she  ever  had  read.  It  was  near  mid- 
night; the  hotel  was  quite  soundless  and  the 
moon  on  high  made  the  shadows  short  and 
black. 

"Meet  me  promptly  at  the  Eagle's  Nest  in 
ten  minutes,"  said  Crane,  "I'll  fetch  my  other 
sword  and  give  you  choice." 

"All  right,  sir,"  responded  Peck,  "but  a  club 
would  do." 

The  peculiar  hollowness  of  their  voices 
affected  the  listener  as  if  the  sounds  had  come 
from  a  tomb.  She  felt  clammy.  Doubtless 
there  is  a  considerable  element  of  humorous, 
almost  ludicrous  bravado  in  such  a  scene  when 
coolly  viewed;  but  Miss  Crabb  could  not  take 
a  calm,  critical  attitude  j  ust  then.  At  first  she 
was  impelled  almost  irresistibly  toAvard  inter- 
fering and  preveuting  a  bloody  encounter;  but 
her  professional  ambition  swept  the  feeling 
aside.  Still,  being  a  woman,  she  was  dreadfully 
nervous.  "Ugh!"  she  shuddered,  "it  will  be 
just  awful,,  but  I  can't  afford  to  miss  getting  the 
full  particulars  for  the  Li(jlitning  Express.  A 
sure  enough  duel  I  It  will  make  my  fortune  I 
Oh,  if  I  were  a  man,  now,  just  only  for  a  few 
hours,  what  a  comfort  it  would  be !  But  all  the 
same  I  must  follow  them — I  must  see  the  en- 


48  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

counter,  describe  it  as  an  eye-witness  ana  send 
it  by  wire  early  in  the  morning." 

It  occurred  to  lier  mind  just  then  that  the 
nearest  telegraph  station  was  twelve  miles  down 
the  mountain,  but  she  did  not  flinch  or  waver. 
The  thought  that  she  was  required  to  do  what 
a  man  might  well  have  shrunk  from  gave  an 
element  of  heroism  to  her  pluck.  She  was  con- 
scious of  this  and  went  about  her  task  with  an 
elasticity  and  facility  truly  admirable. 

Eagle's  IN'est  was  the  name  of  a  small  area  on 
the  top  of  a  beetling  cliff  whose  almost  per- 
pendicular wall  was  dotted  with  clumps  of 
sturdy  little  cedar  trees  growing  out  of  the 
chinks.  It  was  a  dizzy  place  at  all  times,  but 
by  night  the  effect  of  its  airy  height  was  very 
trying  on  any  but  the  best  nerves.  Crane  and 
Peck  both  were  men  of  fine  physique  and  were 
possessed  of  stubborn  courage  and  great  com- 
bativeness.  They  met  on  the  spot  and  after 
choosing  swords,  coolly  and  promptly  proceeded 
to  the  fight.  On  one  hand,  close  to  the  cliff's 
edge,  was  a  thick  mass  of  small  oak  bushes,  on 
the  other  hand  lay  a  broken  wall  of  fragmentary 
stones.  The  footing-space  was  fairly  good, 
though  a  few  angular  blocks  of  stone  lay  here 
and  there,  and  some  brushes  of  stiff'  wood-grass 
were  scattered  around. 

Crane  led  vnth  more  caution  than  one  would 
have  expected  of  an  irate  Kentuckian,  and  Peck 
responded  with  the  brilliant  aplomb  of  an 
enthusiastic  duelist. 

The  swords  were  neither  rapiers  nor  broad- 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  49 

swords,  being  the  ordinary  dress-weapons  worn 
by  Confederate  Infantry  officers  in  the  war 
time — weapons  with  a  history,  since  they  had 
been  at  the  thigh  of  father  and  son,  the  bravest 
of  Kentucky  Cranes,  through  many  a  stormy 
battle. 

Peck's  back  was  toward  the  precipice -brink 
at  the  commencement  of  the  engagement,  but 
neither  had  much  the  advantage,  as  the  moon 
was  almost  directly  overhead.  As  their  weap- 
ons began  to  flash  and  clink,  the  slender  keen 
echoes  fell  over  into  the  yawning  chasm  and 
went  rattling  down  the  steep,  ragged  face  of  the 
precipice.  They  were  vigorous  and  rather  good 
fencers  and  it  would  have  been  evident  to  an  on- 
looker of  experience  that  the  fight  was  to  be  a 
long  one,  notwithstanding  the  great  weight  of 
the  swords  they  were  using.  They  soon  began 
to  fight  fiercely  and  grew  more  vehemently 
aggressive  each  second,  their  blows  and  thrusts 
and  parries  and  counter-cuts  following  each 
other  faster  and  faster  until  the  sounds  ran  to- 
gether and  the  sparks  leaped  and  shone  even  in 
the  bright  moonlight.  They  mingled  broad- 
sword exercise  with  legitimate  rapier  fencing 
and  leaped  about  each  other  like  boxers,  their 
weapons  whirling,  darting,  rising,  falling,  whilst 
their  breathing  became  loud  and  heavy.  It 
was  a  scene  to  have  stirred  the  blood  of  men 
and  women  four  hundred  years  ago,  when  love 
was  worth  fighting  for  and  when  men  were  quite 
able  and  willing  to  fight  for  it. 

The  combatants  strained  every  point  of  their 
4 


50  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

strength  and  skill,  and  not  a  drop  of  blood  could 
either  draw.  Slash,  thrust,  whack,  chnk,  clank, 
clack,  click,  cling!  Round  and  round  tliey 
labored,  the  fury  of  their  efforts  flaming  out  of 
their  Q'^^^  and  concentrating  in  the  deep  lines  of 
their  n:^ouths.  As  if  to  listen,  tbe  breeze  lay 
still  in  the  trees  and  the  great  owl  quit  hooting 
in  tbe  ravine.  Faster  and  faster  fell  the  blows, 
swifter  and  keener  leaped  the  thrusts,  quicker 
and  surer  the  parries  were  interposed.  The 
swords  were  hacked  and  notched  like  hand-saws, 
the  blades  shook  and  hummed  like  lyre-cords. 
Now  close  to  the  cliff's  edge,  now  over  by  the 
heap  of  broken  stones  and  the-n  close  beside  the 
clump  of  oak  bushes,  the  men,  panting  and 
sweating,  their  muscles  knotted,  their  sinews 
leaping  like  bow-strings,  their  eyes  standing  out, 
as  if  starting  from  their  sockets,  pursued  each 
other  without  a  second's  rest  or  wavering. 

At  last,  with  an  irresistible  spurt  of  fury, 
Crane  drove  Peck  right  into  the  bushes  with  a 
great  crash  and  would  not  let  him  out.  The 
critic  was  not  vanquished,  however,  for,  despite 
the  foliage  and  twigs,  he  continued  to  parry  and 
thrust  with  dangerous  accuracy  and  force. 

Just  at  this  point  a  strange  thing  happened. 
Right  behind  Peck  there  was  a  tearing,  crashing 
sound  and  a  cry,  loud,  keen,  despairing,  terrible, 
followed  immediately  by  the  noise  of  a  body 
descending  among  the  cedars  growing  along  the 
face  of  the  awful  precipice. 

It  was  a  woman's  voice,  shrieking  in  deadly 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  51 

horror  that  then  came  up  out  of  the  dizzy  depth 
of  space  below ! 

The  men  let  fall  their  swords  and  leaped  to 
the  edge  of  the  cliff  with  the  common  thought 
that  it  was  Miss  Mojne  who  had  fallen  over. 
They  reeled  back  giddy  and  sick,  staggering  as 
if  drunken. 

Far  down  they  had  seen  something  white 
fluttering  and  gleaming  amid  a  tuft  of  cedars 
and  a  quavering  voice  had  cried: 

"Help,  help,  oh,  help!" 

And  so  the  duel  was  at  an  end. 

vm. 

Hotel  Helicon  was  shaken  out  of  its  sleep  by 
the  startling  rumor  to  the  effect  that  Miss  Moyne 
had  fallen  down  the  precipice  at  Eagle's  Nest. 

Of  all  the  rudely  awakened  and  mightily 
frightened  inmates,  perhaps  Miss  Moyne  herself 
was  most  excited  by  this  waft  of  bad  news.  She 
had  been  sleeping  very  soundly  in  dreamless 
security  and  did  not  at  first  feel  the  absurdity 
of  being  told  that  she  had  just  tumbled  down 
the  escarpment,  which  in  fact  she  never  yet  had 
summoned  the  courage  to  approach,  even  when 
sustained  by  a  strong  masculine  arm. 

"  O  dear !  how  did  it  happen  ?  "  she  demanded 
of  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Coleman  Rhodes,  who  had 
rushed  upon  her  dainty  couch  with  the  frightful 
announcement  of  her  accident. 

"  Oh,  Alice !  you  are  here,  you  are  not  hurt 
at  all!  Oh !  "  Mrs.  Rhodes  went  on,  "and  what 
caTi  it  all  mean  I " 


52  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

Everybody  rushed  out,  of  course,  as  soon  as 
hurried  dressing  would  permit,  and  fell  into  the 
confusion  that  filled  the  halls  and  main  veranda. 

Crane  was  talking  in  a  loud,  but  well  modu- 
lated strain,  explaining  the  accident: 

"Mr.  Peck  and  I,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "were 
enjoying  a  friendly  turn  at  sword-play  up  here 
at  Eagle's  Nest ;  couldn't  sleep,  needed  exercise, 
and  went  up  there  so  as  not  to  disturb  any  one. 
While  we  were  fencing  she  came  rushing  past 
through  those  bushes  and  leaped  right  over  with 
a  great  shriek.     She  — " 

"Don't  stop  to  talk,"  cried  Mr.  R.  Hobbs 
Lucas,  with  a  directness  and  clearness  quite 
unusual  in  a  historian.  "Don't  stop  to  talk, 
let's  go  do  something ! " 

"Yes,  come  on,"  quavered  poor  Peck,  his  face 
whiter  than  the  moon  and  his  beard  quivering 
in  sympathy  with  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  it's  dreadful,  awful ! "  moaned  little  Mrs. 
Philpot,  "  poor,  dear  Miss  Moyne,  to  think  that 
she  is  gone!"  and  she  leaned  heavily  on  Miss 
Moyne's  shoulder  as  she  spoke. 

It  was  a  strange  scene,  too  confused  for  the 
best  dramatic  effect,  but  spectacular  in  the  ex- 
treme„  Servants  swarmed  out  with  lights  that 
wavered  fantastically  in  the  moonshine,  while 
the  huddled  guests  swayed  to  and  fro  in  a  body. 
Every  face  was  pinched  with  intense  excitement 
aaad  looked  haggard  under  its  crown  of  dishev- 
eled hair.  Even  the  hotel  windows  stared  in 
stupid  horror,  and  the  kindly  countenances  of  the 
negro  waiters  took  on  a  bewildered  and  mean- 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  53 

ingless  grin  set  in  a  black  scowl  of  superstition 
and  terror. 

When  Dufour  came  upon  the  scene,  he  did 
not  appear  in  the  least  flurried,  and  the  first 
thing  he  did  was  to  lay  his  hand  on  Miss 
Moyne's  shoulder  and  exclaim  in  a  clear  tenor 
strain : 

"Why,  here!  it's  all  a  mistake!  What  are 
you  talking  about?  Here's  Miss  Moyne!  Here 
she  stands!" 

"Mercy!  where?"  enquired  little  Mrs.  Phil- 
pot,  who  was  still  leaning  on  her  friend  and 
shedding  bitter  tears. 

Dufour,  with  a  quiet :  "Please  don't  take 
offence,"  put  a  hand  on  either  side  of  Miss 
Moyne  and  lifted  her  so  that  she  stood  in  a 
chair  looking  very  sweetly  down  over  the  crowd 
of  people. 

Few  indeed  are  they  who  can  look  beautiful 
under  such  circumstances,  but  Miss  Moyne  cer- 
tainly did,  especially  in  the  eyes  of  Crane  and 
Peck  as  they  gazed  up  at  her. 

Forthwith  the  tragedy  became  a  farce. 

"That  Kentuckian  must  romance,  I  suppose," 
grumbled.  P.  Hobbs  Lucas.  "  Wonder  what 
he'll  tell  next." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  could  be  so  mistaken," 
said  Peck,  after  quiet  had  been  somewhat  re- 
stored, "I  would  have  willinglv  been  sworn 
to—" 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  dozen  voices  hurling 
ironical  phrases  at  him. 

"  It  is  every  word  truth,"    exclaimed   Crane 


54  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

testily.  "Do  you  suppose  I  would  trifle  with 
so—" 

"  Oh,  don't  you  absolutely  know  tliat  we  sup- 
pose  just  that  very  thing  ?  "  said  Lucas. 

With  the  return  of  self-consciousness  the  com- 
pany began  to  scatter,  the  ladies  especially 
scampering  to  their  rooms  with  rustling  celerity. 
The  men  grumbled  not  a  little,  as  if  being 
deprived  of  a  shocking  accident  touched  them 
with  a  sting. 

"The  grotesque  ideal"  ejaculated  Dufour. 
"Such  a  practical  joke — impractical  joke,  I 
might  better  say,  could  originate  only  between  a 
poet  and  a  critic." 

Everybody  went  back  to  bed,  feeling  more  or 
less  injured  by  Crane  and  Peck,  who  shared  in 
their  own  breasts  the  common  impression  that 
they  had  made  great  fools  of  themselves.  If 
these  crest-fallen  knights,  so  lately  militant  and 
self-confident,  had  any  cause  of  quarrel  now  it 
was  based  upon  a  question  as  to  which  should 
feel  the  meaner  and  which  should  more  deeply 
dread  to  meet  Miss  Moyne  on  the  morrow. 

As  for  Miss  Moyne  herself  she  was  indig- 
nant although  she  tried  to  quiet  her  aunt,  who 
was  ready  to  shake  the  dust  of  Mt.  Boab  from 
her  feet  at  once. 

Next  morning,  however,  when  it  was  discov- 
ered that  Miss  Crabb  was  missintr  and  that  after 
all  something  trag^ic  probably  had  happened, 
everybody  felt  relieved. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  55 

IX 

Mr.  Wesley  Tolliver  might  well  have  served 
the  turn  of  romancer  or  realist,  as  he  stood  in 
the  shadow  of  a  cedar-clump  with  the  myster- 
ious stillness  of  midnight  all  around  him.  He 
was  a  very  real  and  substantial  looking  person- 
age, and  yet  his  gun,  his  pistols,  his  fantastic 
mountain  garb  and  the  wild  setting  in  Avhich  he 
was  framed  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  strong 
sketch  meant  to  illustrate  a  story  by  Craddock. 
Above  him  towered  the  clifi'  at  Eagle's  Nest  and 
near  by  was  the  mountain  "Pocket"  in  which 
nestled  the  little  distillery  whose  lurking-place 
had  long  been  the  elusive  dream  of  Utopian 
revenue  officers.  In  a  space  of  brilliant  moon- 
light, Tolliver's  dog,  a  gaunt,  brindle  cur,  sat  in 
statuesque  worthlessness,  remembering  no  doubt 
the  hares  he  never  had  caught  and  the  meatless 
bones  he  had  vainly  buried  during  a  long  igno- 
ble life. 

The  hotel  and  its  inmates  had  rendered  the 
distillery  and  its  furtive  operatives  very  uneasy 
of  late,  and  now  as  Tolliver  in  his  due  turn 
stood  guard  by  night  he  considered  the  proba- 
bility of  having  to  look  for  some  better  situation 
for  his  obscure  manufactory  with  a  species  of 
sadness  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe. 
He  thought  with  deep  bitterness  of  all  the 
annoyance  he  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  med- 
dling government  agents  and  from  the  outside 
world  in  general  and  he  tried  to  understnnd 
how   any  person  could  pretend  to  see  justice  in 


$6  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

such  persecution.  What  had  he  done  to  merit 
being  hunted  hke  a  wild  beast?  Nothing  but 
buy  his  neighbor  s  apples  at  the  fair  price  of 
twenty  cents  a  bushel  and  distil  them  into 
apple  brandy!  Could  this  possiWy  be  any 
injury  to  any  government  official,  or  to  anybody 
else?  He  paid  for  his  still,  he  paid  for  the 
apples,  he  paid  fair  wages  to  the  men  whc 
worked  for  him,  what  more  could  be  justly 
demanded  of  him  ? 

It  was  while  he  was  wholly  absorbed  in  try- 
ing tc  solve  this  knotty  problem  that  far  above 
a  strange  chnk  and  clatter  began,  which  sounded 
to  him  as  if  it  were  falling  from  among  the 
stars.  Nothing  within  his  knowledge  or  exper- 
ience suggested  an  explanation  of  such  a  phe- 
nomenon. He  felt  a  thrill  of  superstitious  terror 
creep  through  his  iron  nerves  as  the  aerial 
racket  increased  and  seemed  to  whisk  itself 
from  place  to  place  with  lightning  celerity.  An 
eccentric  echo  due  to  the  angles  and  projections 
of  the  cliff  added  weird  effect  to  the  sounds. 

The  dog  uttered  a  low  plaintive  whine  and 
crept  close  to  his  master,  and  even  wedged  him- 
self with  tremulous  desperation  between  the 
knees  of  that  wondering  and  startled  sentinel. 

The  clinking  and  clanging  soon  became  loud 
and  continuous,  falling  in  a  cataract  down  the 
escarpment,  accompanied  now  and  again  by 
small  fragments  of  stone  and  soil. 

At  last  Tolliver  got  control  of  himself  suffi- 
ciently^ and  looked  out  from  his  shadowy  station 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly,  57 

anb  up   towards   the   dizzy   crown   of  Eagle's 
Nest. 

Just  at  that  moment  there  was  a  crash  and  a 
scream.  He  saw  a  w^de- winged,  ghostly  object 
come  over  the  edge  and  swoop  down.  Another 
scream,  another  and  another,  a  tearing  sound,  a 
crushing  of  cedar  boughs,  a  shower  of  small 
stones  and  lumps  of  soil. 

Tolliver,  frightened  as  he  never  before  had 
been,  turned  and  fled,  followed  by  his  ecstatic 
dog. 

A  voice,  keen,  clear,  high,  beseeching  pur- 
sued him  and  reached  his  ears. 

"Help!  help!     Oh,  help!" 

Surely  this  was  the  "  Harnt  that  walks  Mt. 
Boab ! "     This  syren  of  the  mountains  had  lured 
many  a  hunter  to  his  doom. 
"^    "Oh,    me  I      Oh,    my!      Oh,  mercy  on   m^e! 
Help!  help!" 

Tolliver  ran  all  tho  faster,  as  the  voice  seemed 
to  follow  him,  turn  as  he  would.  He  bruised 
his  shins  on  angular  rocks,  he  ran  against  trees, 
he  fell  over  logs,  and  at  last  found  himself  hope- 
lessly entangled  in  a  net  of  wild  grape-vines, 
with  his  enthusiastic  dog  still  faithfully  wrig- 
gling between  his  knees. 

The  plaintive  voice  of  the  syren,  now  greatly 
modified  by  distance,  assailed  his  ears  with 
piteous  persistence,  as  he  vainly  struggled  to 
free  liimself.  The  spot  was  dark  as  Erebus, 
being  in  the  bottom  of  a  ravine,  and  the  more 
he  exerted  himself  the  worse  oft'  he  became. 

It  was  his  turn  to  call  for  help,  but  if  any  of 


5S  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

his  friends  heard  they  did  not  heed  his  suppli. 
cations,  thinking  them  but  baleful  echoes  of  the 
Harnt's  deceitful  voice. 

It  was  at  the  gray  of  dawn  when  at  last  Tol- 
liver  got  clear  of  the  vines  and  made  his  way 
out  of  the  ravine.  By  this  time  he  had  entirely 
overcome  his  fright,  and  with  tliat  stubbornness 
characteristic  of  all  mountain  men,  he  betook 
himself  back  to  the  exact  spot  whence  he  had 
so  precipitately  retreated.  His  dog,  forlornly 
nonchalant,  trotted  behind  him  to  the  place  and 
resumed  the  seat  from  which  the  Harnt  had 
driven  him  a  few  hoiirs  ago.  In  this  attitude, 
the  animal  drooped  his  nose  and  indifferently 
sniffed  a  curious  object  lying  near. 

"  What's  thet  ther'  thing,  Mose?  "  inquired 
Tclliver,  addressing  the  dog. 

"  Well  I'll  ber  dorg-goned  !  "  he  added,  as  he 
picked  up  a  woman's  bonnet.  "  If  this  here 
don't  beat  the  worl'  an'  all  camp  meetin'  !  Hit 
air — well,  I'll  ber  dorged — hit  air — I'm  er  ghost 
if  hit  aint  Miss  Sara'  Anna  Crabb's  bonnet,  by 
Ned !  '^ 

He  held  it  up  by  one  silk  string  and  gazed  at 
it  with  a  ludicrously  puzzled  stare.  The  dog 
whined  and  wagged  his  tail  in  humble  sym- 
pathy with  his  master's  bewilderment. 

"  Hit's  kinder  interestin',  haint  it,  Mose  ?  " 
Tolliver  went  on  dryly.  "  We'll  hev  ter  look 
inter  this  here  thing,  won't  we,  Mose  ?  " 

As  for  Mose,  he  was  looking  into  it  with  all 
bis  eyes.    Indeed   he  was  beginning  to  show 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  59 

extreme  interest,  and  bis  tail  was  pounding  the 
ground  with  great  rapidity. 

Suddenly  a  thought  leaped  into  Tolliver's 
brain  and  with  a  start  he  glanced  up  the  escarp- 
ment, his  mouth  open  and  his  brown  cheeks 
betraying  strong  emotion.  Mose  followed  his 
master's  movements  with  kindling  eyes,  and 
whined  dolefully,  his  wolfish  nose  lifted  almost 
vertically. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mr.  ToUiver  ?  "  fell  a  voice 
out  of  a  cedar  clump  a  little  way  up  the  side 
of  the  cliff. 

"Hit  air  me,"  he  responded,  as  he  saw  ^liss 
Crabb  perched  among  the  thick  branches.  She 
had  her  little  red  note-book  open  and  was 
writing  vigorously.  Her  yellow  hair  was  di- 
sheveled so  that  it  appeared  to  surround  her 
face  with  a  flickering  light  which  to  Tolliver's 
mind  gave  it  a  most  beautiful  and  altogether 
lovely  expression. 

"  Well,  I'll  ber— "  he  checked  himself  and 
stood  in  picturesque  suspense. 

*'  Now,  Mr.  Tolliver,  won't  you  please  help 
me  down  from  here?"  slie  demanded,  closing 
her  note-book  and  placing  her  pencil  behind 
her  ear.  "  I'm  awfully  cramped,  sitting  in  this 
position  so  long." 

The  cliivalrous  mountaineer  did  not  wait  to 
be  appealed  to  a  second  time,  but  layin^^  down 
his  gun  to  which  he  had  clunsr  througiiout  the 
night,  he  clambered  up  the  steep  face  of  the 
rock,  from  projection  to  projection,  until  he 
reached    the   tree   in   which    Miss    Crabb   sat. 


6o  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

Meantime  she  watched  him  with  admiring  eyes 
and  just  as  he  was  about  to  take  her  in  his 
arms  and  descend  with  her  she  exclaimed : 

"Wait  a  moment,  I  might  lose  the  thought, 
I'll  just  jot  it  down." 

She  took  her  note-book  and  pencil  again  and 
hurriedly  made  the  following  entry :  Sinewy^ 
virile^  lithe,  hirsute^  fearless,  plucky,  bronzed,  vig- 
orous, lank,  Greek-eyed,  Roman- nosed,  prompt, 
large-eared,  typical  American.  Good  hero  for 
dramatic,  short,  winning  dialect  story.  The 
magazines  never  refuse  dialect  stories. 

"  Now,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Tolliver,  I  will  go 
with  you." 

It  was  an  Herculean  labor,  but  Tolliver  was 
a  true  hero.  With  one  arm  wound  around  her, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  serpent  in  the  group  of  the 
Laocoon,  and  with  her  long  yellow  hair  stream- 
ing in  crinkled  jets  over  his  shoulder,  he  slowly 
made  his  way  down  to  the  ground. 

Meantime  Mose,  the  dog,  with  true  canine 
sympathy  and  helpfulness,  had  torn  the  bonnet 
into  pathetic  i^hreds,  and  was  now  lying  half 
asleep  under  a  tree  with  a  bit  of  ribbon  in  his 
teeth. 

"  Well,  I'll  jest  ber — beg  parding  Miss  Crabb, 
but  thet  ther  dog  hev  et  up  yer  head-gear," 
said  Tolliver  as  he  viewed  with  dilating  eyes 
the  scattered  fragments. 

She  comprehended  her  calamity  with  one 
swift  glance,  but  she  had  caught  a  new  dialect 
phrase  at  the  same  time. 


A  Fo7-t night  of  Folly.  6l 

"  Head-gear,  vou  call  it,  I  believe  ?  '^  she 
inquired,  again  prod'iciiig  book  and  pencil. 

"  Beg  parding  all  over.  Miss  Crabb,  I  meant 
bonnet,"   lie  harried  to  sav. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,  I  assure  you,"  she  replied, 
writing  rapidly,  "it's  a  delightfully  fresh  and 
artistic  bit  of  special  coloring." 

Miss  Crabb's  clothes  were  badly  torn  and  she 
looked  as  if  she  had  spent  the  night  wretchedly, 
but  with  the  exception  of  a  few  slight  scratches 
and  braises  she  was  unhurt. 

"  Well  jes'  look  a  there,  will  ye !  "  exclaimed 
ToUiver  as  he  spied  Mose.  There  was  more  of 
admiration  tlian  anger  in  his  voice.  "  Ef  thet 
ther  'fernal  dog  haint  got  yer  chin-ribbon  in  his 
ole  mouth,  I'm  er  rooster !" 

"  Chin-ribbon,"  repeated  Miss  Crabb,  making 
a  note,  "I'm  er  rooster,"  and  she  smiled  with 
intense  satisftiction.  "You  don't  know,  Mr. 
Tolliver,  how  much  I  arn  indebted  to  you." 

"  Not  a  tall.  Miss  Crabb,  not  a  tall.  Don't 
mention  of  it,"  he  humbly  said,  "  hit  taint  wo'th 
talkin'  erbout." 

The  morning  was  in  full  blow  now  and  the 
cat-birds  w^ere  singing  sweetly  down  the  ravine. 
Overhead  a  patch  of  blue  sky  gleamed  and 
burned  with  the  true  empyrean  glow.  Far 
away,  down  in  the  valley  by  the  Httle  river,  a 
breakfast  horn  was  blown  with  many  a  mellow 
flourish  and  a  cool  gentle  breeze  with  dew  on 
its  wdngs  fanned  Miss  Crabb's  sallow  cheeks 
and  nistled  Tolliver's  tawny  beard.  At  the 
sound    of  the  horn  Mose  sprang  to  his  feet  and 


62  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

loped    away   with  the  bit  of  ribbon  fluttering 
from  liis  mouth. 


It  was  late  in  the  forenoon  before  it  was  dis- 
covered at  Hotel  Helicon  that  Miss  Crabb  was 
missing,  and  even  then  there  arose  so  many 
doubts  about  the  tragic  side  of  the  event  that 
before  any  organized  search  for  her  had  been 
begun,  she  returned,  appearing  upon  the  scene 
mounted  behind  Wesley  Tolliver  on  a  small, 
thin,  wiry  mountain  mule. 

Crane  and  Peck  each  drew  a  deep,  swift  sigh 
of  relief  upon  seeing  her,  for  the  sense  of  guilt 
in  their  breasts  had  been  horrible.  They  had 
by  tacit  conspiracy  prevented  any  examination 
of  Eagle's  Nest,  for  they  dreaded  what  might  be 
disclosed.  Of  course  tliey  did  not  mean  to  hide 
the  awful  fate  of  tlie  poor  girl,  nor  would  they 
willingly  have  shifted  the  weight  of  their  dread- 
ful responsibility,  but  it  was  all  so  much  hke  a 
vivid  dream,  so  utterly  strange  and  theatrical 
as  it  arose  in  their  memories,  that  they  could 
not  fully  believe  in  it. 

Miss  Crabb  looked  quite  ludicrous  perched 
behind  the  tall  mountaineer  on  such  a  dwarfish 
mule.  Especially  comical  was  the  effect  of  the 
sun-bonnet  she  wore.  She  had  accepted  this 
article  of  apparel  from  Tolliver's  mother,  and  it 
appeared  to  clutch  her  head  in  its  stiff  folds  and 
\£>  elongate  her  face  by  sheer  compression. 

Everybody  laughed  involuntarily,  as  much 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  63 

for  joy  at  her  safe  return  as  in  response  to  the 
demand  of  her  melodramntic  apfiearance. 

"I've  brung  back  yer  rnoervvay,"  said  Tolli- 
ver  cheerily,  as  he  helped  the  young  woman  to 
dismount.  "Slie  clini  down  the  mounting  by 
one  pertic'ler  trail  an'  I  jes'  fotch  her  up  by 
t'other." 

Miss  Crabb  spoke  not  a  word,  but  ran  into 
the  hotel  and  up  to  her  room  without  glanoing 
to  the  right  or  to  the  left.  In  her  great  l.asie 
the  stiff  old  sun -bonnet  fell  from  her  head  and 
tumbled  upon  the  ground. 

"  Wush  ye'd  jes'  be  erbligin'  enough  tei  han' 
thet  there  head-gear  up  ter  me,  Mister,"  said 
Tolliver  addressing  Crane,  who  was  standing 
near.  *'  My  mammy  'd  raise  er  rumpage  ef  I'd 
gobnck  'thout  thet  ther  bonnet." 

With  evident  reluctance  and  disgust  Crane 
gingerly  took  up  the  fallen  article  and  gave  it 
to  Tolliver,  who  thanked  him  so  politely  that 
all  the  onlooking  company  felt  a  glow  of  admira- 
tion for  the  uncouth  and  yet  rather  handsome 
cavalier. 

"Thet  gal,"  he  observed,  glancing  in  the 
direction  that  Miss  Crabb  had  gone,  "  she  hev 
the  winnin'est  ways  of  any  gal  I  ever  seed  in 
my  life.  Ye  orter  seen  'er  up  inter  thet  there 
bush  a  writin'  in  'er  book  1  She'd  jes'  tumbled 
kerwhummox  down  the  clift  an'  hed  lodged 
ther'  in  them  cedars ;  but  as  she  wer'  a  writin' 
when  she  started  ter  fall  w'y  she  struck  a 
writin'  an'  jes'  kep'  on  at  it  same's  if  nothin'  had 
happened.     She's  game,  thet  ole  gal  air,  I  tell 


64  A  Fortnight  of  Foity. 

ye  I  She  don't  propose  for  any  little  tiling  like 
fallin'  off'n  a  clift,  ter  interfere  with  w'at  she's 
a  doin*  at  thet  time,  le'  me  say  ter  ye.  Lord 
but  she  wer'  hongry,  though,  settin'  up  ther  a 
writin'  all  night,  an'  it  'd  a  done  3^e  good  to  a  seen 
'er  eat  thet  chicken  and  them  cake- biscuits  my 
mammy  cooked  for  breakfast.  She  air  a  mos' 
alarmin'  fine  gal,  for  a  fac'." 

At  tins  point  Dufour  came  out  of  the  hotel, 
and  when  Tolliver  saw  him  there  was  an  instan- 
taneous change  in  the  expression  of  the  moun- 
taineer's face. 

"  Well  I'll  ber  dorged  I  "  he  exclaimed  with 
a  smile  of  delight,  "ef  ther'  haint  the  same 
leetle  John  the  Baptis'  what  bapsonsed  me  down 
yer  inter  the  branch!  Give  us  yer  baby- 
iijpanker,  ole  feller  !     How  air  ye !  " 

Dufour  cordially  shook  hands  with  him, 
laughing  in  a  jolly  way. 

"  Fust  an'  only  man  at  ever  ducked  me,  I'm 
here  ter  say  ter  ye,"  TolHver  went  on,  in  a 
cheery,  half-bantering  tone,  and  sitting  sidewise 
on  the  mule.  "  Ye  mus'  hev'  a  sight  o'  muscle 
onto  them  duck  legs  and  bantam  arms  o' 
your'n." 

He  had  the  last  word  still  in  his  mouth  when 
the  little  beast  suddenly  put  down  its  head  and 
flung  high  its  hind  feet. 

"  Woirp !"  they  heard  him  cry,  as  he  whirled 
over  in  the  air  and  fell  sprawling  on  the 
ground. 

Dufour  leaped  forward  to  see  if  the  man  was 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  65 

hurt,  but  Tolliver  was  upright  in  an  instant  and 
grinning  sheepishly. 

"That's  right,  Bonus,"  he  said  to  the  mule 
which  stood  quite  still  in  its  place,  'thet's  right 
ole  fel,  try  ter  ac'  smart  in  comp'ny.  Yer  a 
beauty  now,  ain't  ye  ?  " 

He  replaced  his  hat,  which  had  fallen  from 
his  head,  patted  the  mule  caressingly  on  the 
neck,  then  lightly  vaulting  to  the  old  saddle- 
tree,  he  waved  his  hand  to  the  company  and 
turning  dashed  at  a  gallop  down  the  moun- 
tain road,  his  spurs  jingling  merrily  as  he 
went. 

"What  a  delicious  characterl" 

"What  precious  dialect!  " 

"How  typically  American!" 

"  A  veritable  hero!" 

Everybody  at  Hotel  Helicon  appeared  to 
have  been  captivated  by  this  droll  fellow. 

"How  like  Tolstoi's  lovely  Russians  he  is!" 
observed  Miss  Fidelia  Arkwright,  of  Boston,  a 
near-sighted  maiden  who  did  translations  and 
who  doted  on  virile  literature. 

"When  I  was  in  Russia,  I  visited  Tolstoi  at 
his  slioe-shop — "  began  Crane,  but  nobody 
appeared  to  hear  him,  so  busy  were  all  in  mak- 
ing notes  for  a  dialect  story. 

"Tolstoi  is  the  greatest  fraud  of  the  nir.eteenth 
century,"  said  Peck.  "That  shoe-making  pre- 
tence of  his  is  about  on  a  par  with  lis  tien-.us  in 
genuineness  and  sincerity.  His  novels  are 
great  chunks  of  raw  filth,  rank,  garlic-garnished 
and  hideous.     We  touch  them  only  because  the 


66  A  Fc7'tnight  of  Folly. 

Frencli  critics  liave  called  them  savory.  If  tlie 
Revue  de  Deux  Mondes  should  praise  a  Turkish 
novel  we  could  not  wait  to  read  it  before  we 
joined  in.  Tolstoi  is  remarkable  for  two  things  : 
his  coarseness  and  his  vulgar  disregard  of 
decency  and  truth.  His  life  and  his  writings  are 
alike  crammed  with  absurdities  and  contradic- 
tory puerilities  which  would  be  laughable  but 
for  their  evil  tendencies." 

"But,  my  dear  sir,  how  then  do  you  account 
for  the  many  editions  of  Tolstoi's  books  ? " 
inquired  the  historian,  E.  Hobbs  Lucas. 

"Just  as  I  account  for  the  editions  of  Cow- 
per  and  Montgomery  and  Wordsworth  and  even 
♦Shakespeare,"  responded  Peck.  "  You  put  a  ten 
per  cent,  author's  royalty  on  all  those  dear  clas- 
'sics  and  see  how  soon  the  publishers  will  quit 
\ittering  them  !  If  Tolstoi's  Russian  raw  meat 
Itories  were  put  upon  the  market  in  a  fair  com- 
petition with  American  novels  the  latter 
would  beat  them  all  hollow  in  selling." 

"Oh,  we  ought  to  have  international  copy- 
right," plaintively  exclaimed  a  dozen  voices, 
and  so  the  conversation  ended. 

Strangely  enough,  each  one  of  the  company 
in  growing  silent  did  so  in  order  to  weigh  cer- 
tain suggestions  arising  out  of  Peck's  assertions. 
It  was  as  if  a  score  of  semi-annual  statements 
of  copyright  accounts  were  fluttering  in  the 
breeze,  and  it  Avas  as  if  a  score  of  wistful 
voices  had  whispered: 

"IIow  in  the  world  do  publishers  grow  rich 
when  the  books  they  publish  never  sell  ?  " 


A  Fo7inight  of  Folly.  67 

Perhaps  Gasparcl  Dufour  should  be  mentioned 
as  appearing  to  have  little  sympathy  with 
Peck's  theory  or  with  the  inward  mutterings  it 
had  engendered  in  the  case  of  the  rest  of  the 
company. 

If  there  was  any  change  in  Dufour's  face  it 
was  expressed  in  a  smile  of  intense  self-satisfac- 
tion. 

XI. 

It  was,  of  course,  not  long  that  the  newspapers 
of  our  wide-awake  country  were  kept  from  giv- 
ing t-heir  readers  very  picturesque  glimpses  of 
what  was  going  on  among  the  dwellers  on  Mt. 
Boab.  The  humorists  of  the  press,  those  charm 
ing  fellows  whose  work  is  so  enjoyable  when 
performed  upon  one's  neighbor  and  so  excruci- 
ating when  turned  against  oneself,  saw  the  vul- 
nerable points  of  the  situation  and  let  go  a 
broadside  of  ridicule  that  reverberated  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific.  It  became  a  matter  of 
daily  amusement  among  the  inmates  of  Hotel 
Helicon  to  come  together  in  little  groups  and 
discuss  these  humorous  missiles  fired  upon 
them  from  California,  Texas,  Arkansas  and 
Wisconsin,  from  Brooklyn,  Pittsburgh,  Atlanta, 
and  Oil-City, Detroit  and — , butfiom everywhere, 
indeed. 

When  it  came  to  Miss  Crabb's  adventure, 
^N^xj  humorist  excelled  himself  in  descriptive 
smartness  and  in  cunning  turns  of  ironical 
phrasing.  The  head-line  experts  did  telling 
work   in   the  same  connection.     All  this  was 


68  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

perfectly  understood  and  enjoyed  at  home,  out 
foreigners,  especially  the  English,  stubbornly 
insisted  upon  viewing  it  as  the  high-water 
mark  of  American  refinement  and  culture. 

When  that  genial  periodical,  theSmartsburgh 
Bulldozer^  announced  with  due  gravity  that 
Miss  Crabb,  a  Western  journalist,  had  leaped 
from  the  top  of  Mt.  Boab  to  the  valley  below, 
and  had  been  caught  in  the  arms  of  a  stalwart 
moonshiner,  where  she  safely  reposed,  etc.,  the 
London  Times  copied  the  paragraph  and  made 
it  a  text  for  a  heavy  editorial  upon  the  barbaric 
influences  of  Kepublican  institutions,  to  which 
the  American  Minister  felt  bound  to  advert  in 
a  characteristic  after-dinner  speech  at  a  London 
club.  So  humorous,  however,  were  his  remarks 
that  he  was  understood  to  be  vigorously  in 
earnest,  and  the  result  was  perfect  confirmation 
of  the  old  world's  opinion  as  to  the  rudi- 
mentary character  of  our  national  culture. 

Meantime  Hotel  Helicon  continued  to  be  the 
scene  of  varied  if  not  startling  incidents.  In 
their  search  for  local  color  and  picturesque 
material,  the  litterateurs  invaded  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  region  upon  and  round  about 
Mt.  Boab,  sketching,  making  notes,  recording 
suggestions,  studying  dialect,  and  filling  their 
minds  with  the  uncouth  peculiarities  of  the 
mountain  folk. 

"It  lias  come  to  this,"  grumbled  Peck,  "that 
American  literature,  its  fiction  I  mean,  is 
founded  on  dialect  drivel  and  vulgar  yawp. 
Look    at    our    magazines  5  four-fifths   of  their 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  69 

short  stories  are  full  of  negro  talk,  or  cracker 
lingo,  or  mountain  jibberisli,  or  New  England 
farm  jawp,  or  Hoosier  dialect.  It  is  horribly 
humiliating.  It  actually  makes  foreigners  thinlc 
that  we  are  a  nation  of  greeii- horns.  Why,  a 
day  or  two  ago  I  had  occasion  to  consult  the 
article  on  American  literature  in  the  Encyclo- 
paedia Britannica  and  therein  I  was  told  in  one 
breath  how  great  a  writer  and  how  truly  Amer- 
ican Mr.  Lowell  is,  and  in  the  next  breath  I 
was  informed  that  a  poem  beginniDg  with  the 
verse,  '  Under  the  yaller  pines  I  house  '  is  one  of 
his  master-pieces  !  Do  you  see  ?  Do  you  catch 
the  drift  of  the  Eng-lishman's  aruument?  To 
be  truly  great,  as  an  Araerican^  one  must  be  sur- 
pass ngly  vulgar,  even  in  poetry  !  " 

This  off-hand  shower  of  critical  observation 
had  as  Lttle  efl'ect  upon  the  minds  of  Peck's 
hearers  as  a  summer  rain  has  on  the  bac-k-  of  a 
flock  of  ducks.  They  even  grew  more  vehe- 
ment in  their  pursuit  of  locai  color. 

"  When  I  was  spending  a  month  at  Eock- 
ledge  castle  with  Lord  Knownaught,"  said  Crane, 
"his  lordship  frequently  suggested  that  I  should 
make  a  poem  on  the  life  of  Jesse  James." 

"  Well,  why  didn't  you  do  it  ? "  inquired 
Miss  Crabb  with  a  ring  of  impatience  in  her 
voice,  "  if  you  had  yow.  might  have  made  a  hit. 
You    might    have    attracted    some    attention." 

Dufour  laughed  heartily,  as  if  he  had  caught 
some  occult  humor  from  the  young  woman's 
words. 


yo  ^A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

''  I  did  write  it/'  said  Crane  retrospectively, 
"  and  sent  it  to  George  Dunkirk  &  Co." 

"  Well  ?"  sighed  Miss  Crabb  with  intense 
interest. 

"  Well,"  replied  Crane,  "  they  rejected  the  MS. 
without  reading  it/' 

Again  Dufour  laughed,  as  if  at  a  good  joke. 

"  George  Dunkirk  &  Co. !"  cried  Guilford 
Ferris,  the  romancer,  ''George  Dunkirk  &  Co.! 
They  are  thieves.  They  have  been  making 
false  reports  on  copyright  to  me  for  five  years  or 
more !" 

Dufour  chuckled  as  if  his  jaws  would  fall  off, 
and  finally  with  a  red  face  and  gleaming 
humorous  eyes  got  up  from  the  chair  he  was 
filling  on  the  veranda,  and  went  up  to  his 
room. 

The  rest  of  the  company  looked  at  one  another 
inquiringly. 

"  Who  is  he,  anyhow?"  demanded  Peck. 

"  That's  just  my  query,"  said  Ferris. 

"  Nobody  in  the  house  knows  anything  defi- 
nite about  him/'  remarked  R.  Hobbs  Lucas. 
"  And  yet  he  evidently  is  a  distinguished  per- 
son, and  his  name  haunts  me." 

''  So  it  does  me,"  said  Miss  Aloyne. 

*'  I  tell  you  he's  a  newspaper  reporter.  His 
cheek  proves  that,"  remarked  Peck. 

Miss  Crabb  made  a  note,  her  own  cheek 
flaming.  "  I  presume  you  call  that  humor," 
she  observed,  "  it's  about  like  New  York's  best 
efforts.  In  the  West  reporters  are  respectable 
people." 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  11 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  Peck  said  hastily,  "  I  did 
not  mean  to  insinuate  that  anybody  is  not  respect- 
able. Everybody  is  eminently  respectable  if  I 
speak  of  tliem.  I  never  trouble  myself  with 
the  other  kind." 

"  Well,  I  don't  believe  that  Mr.  Dufour  is  a 
reporter  at  all,"  replied  Miss  Crabb,  with  em- 
phasis, "  for  he's  not  inquisitive,  he  don't  make 
notes,  and  he  don't  appear  to  be  writing  any." 

"  In  my  opinion  he's  a  realist — a  genuine 
analytical,  motive-dissecting,  commonplace- 
recording,  international  novelist  in  disguise," 
said  Ferris. 

"  Oh  : " 

"  Ah  1 " 

"  Dear  me  ! " 

"But  who?" 

"  It  may  be  Arthur  Selby  himself,  incog. 
Who  knows?" 

"  Humph ! "  growled  Crane  with  a  lofty 
scrowl,  "  I  should  think  I  ought  to  know  Selby. 
I  drank  wine  with  him  at — " 

His  remark  was  cut  short  by  the  arrival  of 
the  mail  and  the  general  scramble  that  followed. 

Upon  this  occasion  the  number  of  newspapers 
that  fell  to  the  hand  of  each  gue:st  was  much 
greater  than  usual,  and  it  was  soon  discovered 
that  M;ss  Crabb's  latest  letter  had  been  forwarded 
to  a  "syndicate"  and  was  appearing  simul- 
taneously in  ninety  odd  different  journals. 

No  piece  of  composition  ever  was  more  stun- 
ningly realistic  or  more  impartially,  na}^ 
abjectly  truthful  than  was  that  letter.     It   gave 


}2  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

a  minute  account  of  the  quarrel  between  Peck 
and  Crane  over  their  attentions  to  Miss  Mojne, 
the  fight,  Miss  Crabb's  fall,  tlie  subsequent 
adventurps  and  all  the  hotel  gossip  of  every 
sort.  It  was  personal  to  the  l^st  degree,  but  it 
was  not  in  tlie  slightest  libelous.  No  person 
could  say  that  any  untruth  had  been  told,  or 
even  that  any  t^'nge  of  false-coloring  had  been 
laid  upon  the  facts  as  recorded  ;  and  yet  bow 
merciless  I 

Of  course  Miss  Crabb's  name  did  not  appeal 
with  the  article,  save  as  one  of  its  subjects,  and 
she  saAV  at  once  that  slie  had  better  guard  liei 
secret. 

That  was  a  breeze  Avhich  rustled  through 
Hotel  Helicon.  Everybody  was  supremelj' 
indignant ;  but  there  was  no  clue  to  the  traitoi 
who  had  thus  betrayed  everybody's  secrets.  It 
wou^d  be  absurd  to  suppose  that  Miss  Crabb 
was  not  suspected  at  once,  on  account  of  her 
constant  and  superfluous  show  of  note-making, 
still  there  were  others  who  might  be  guilty. 
Crane  and  Peck  were  indignant,  the  former 
especially  ready  to  resent  to  the  death  any  allu- 
sion to  the  details  of  the  duel.  Miss  Moyne 
with  the  quick  insight  of  a  clever  and  gifted 
young  woman,  comprehended  the  situation  in 
its  general  terms  and  was  vexed  as  much  as 
amused.  The  whole  thing  had  to  her  mind  the 
appearance  of  a  melodramatic,  broadly  sensa- 
tional sketch,  in  which  she  had  plaj^ed  the  j^art 
of  the  innocent,  unconscious,  but  all-powerful 
heroine.     Indeed  the  newspaper  account  placed 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  73 

her  in  this  Ticpleasant  attitude  before  a  million 
readers. 

"  A  lucky  affair  for  you,  Miss  Moyne,"  said 
Dufou>'  to  her,  a  few  days  later,  "you  cannot 
over-reckon  the  boom  it  will  give  to  your  latest 
book.  You  may  expect  a  pretty  round  sum 
with  your  next  copyright  statement." 

He  spoke  with  the  voice  and  air  of  one  who 
knew  bow  to  read  the  signs  of  the  day. 

"  But  the  ridiculous  idea  ot  having  all  this 
stuff  about  me  going  the  rounds  of  the  news- 
papers !"  she  responded,  her  beautiful  patrician 
face  showing  just  a  hint  of  color. 

*'  Don't  care  for  it  a  moment,"  said  Dufour, 
"it  will  not  hurt  you." 

"The  thought  of  having  that  hideous  picture 
in  all  the  patent  inside  pages  of  the  cheap  press, 
with  my  name  under  it,  eii  toutes  lettres^  and — 
why  it  is  horrible  ! "  she  went  on,  with  trem- 
bling lips. 

Dufour  smiled  upon  her,  as  if  indulgently,  a 
curious,  tender  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"  Wait,"  he  said,  "  and  don't  allow  it  to  trouble 
you.  The  world  discriminates  pretty  well, 
after  all.  It  will  not  hurt  you.  It's  a  mighty 
boom  for  you." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  flash  in  her 
cheeKs  and  eyes,  and  exclaimed  almost  vehem- 
ently .  "  I  will  not  permit  it !  They  shall  not 
do  it.  I  cannot  bear  to  be  treated  as  if — as  if 
I  were  a  theatrical  person- — a  variety  actress!  " 

"  My  dear  Miss  Moyne,"  he  hurriedly  said, 
his  own  face  showing  a  tinge  of  embarrassment, 


74  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

"  you  are  taking  a  wrong  point  of  view,  indeed 
you  are.  Wait  till  you  see  the  out-come."  His 
tone  was  humble  and  apologetic  as  he  continued 
— "  My  opinion  is  that  this  very  thing  will 
quadruple  the  sales  of  your  book." 

"I  don't  want  them  quadrupled,"  she  cried, 
"just  look  at  that  front  hair  and  that  nose!" 
She  held  up  a  newspaper  for  him  to  inspect 
a  picture  of  herself,  a  miserable,  distorted  thing. 
"  It  is  absolutely  disgraceful.  My  dresses  never 
fit  like  that,  and  who  ever  saw  me  with  a  man 'a 
collar  on  I  " 

Tears  were  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

Dufour  consoled  her  as  best  he  could,  though 
he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  suggest 
that  even  a  caricature  of  her  face  was  sure  to 
have  in  it  the  fascination  of  genuine  loveliness, 
a  suggestion  which  was  phrased  with  consum- 
mate art  and  received  with  an  appearance  of 
innocence  that  was  beyond  all  art. 

XII. 

Summer  on  Mt.  Boab  was  much  like  summer 
on  any  other  mountain,  and  life  at  Hotel  Helicon 
was  very  like  life  at  any  other  mountain  hotel, 
save  that  a  certain  specialization  due  to  the 
influence  of  literature  and  art  was  apparent  in 
the  present  instance,  giving  to  the  house,  the 
landscape  and  the  intercourse  of  the  guests  a 
peculiar  tinge,  so  to  say,  of  self-consciousness 
and  artificiality.  Not  tha-t  these  authors,  thus 
drawn  together  by  the  grace  of  a  man  grown 
suddenly  rich,  were  very  difierent  from  men  and 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly,  75 

women  of  other  lines  in  life,  the  real  peculiarity 
sprang  out  of  the  obligation  by  which  every 
one  felt  bound  to  make  the  most,  in  a  profes- 
sional way,  of  the  situation  and  the  environ- 
ment. Perhaps  there  was  not  a  soul  under  the 
broad  roof  of  Hotel  Helicon,  servants  excepted, 
that  did  not  secrete  in  its  substance  the  material 
for  a  novel,  a  poem,  or  an  essay  which  was  to 
brim  with  the  local  life  and  flash  with  the  local 
color  of  the  region  of  Mt.  Boab.  Yes,  there 
appeared  to  be  one  exception.  Dufour  constantly 
expressed  a  contempt  for  the  mountaineers  and 
their  country. 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  conceded,  *'  to  be  sure  there 
is  a  demand  for  dialect  stories,  and  I  suppose 
that  they  must  be  written ;  but  for  my  part  I 
cannot  see  why  we  Americans  must  stultify 
ourselves  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world  by  flood- 
ing our  magazines,  newspapers  and  books  with 
yawp  instead  of  with  a  truly  characteristic 
American  literature  of  a  high  order.  There  is 
some  excuse  for  a  quasi-negro  literature,  and 
even  the  Creoles  might  have  a  niche  set  apart 
for  them,  but  dialect,  on  the  whole,  is  growing 
to  be  a  literary  bore." 

"  But  don't  you  think,"  said  Miss  Crabb,  draw- 
ing her  chin  under,  and  projecting  her  upper 
teeth  to  such  a  degree  that  anything  like  real- 
istic description  would  appear  brutal,  "don't 
you  think,  Mr.  Dufour,  that  Mr.  Tolliver  would 
make  a  great  character  in  a  mountain  romance  ?  " 

"  No.     There  is  nothing  great  in  a  clown,  as 


y6  A  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

such/'  he  promptly  answered.  "If  Tolliver  is 
great  he  would  be  great  without  his  jargon." 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  "but  the  picturesque- 
ness,  the  color,  the  contrast,  you  know,  would 
be  gone.     Now  Craddock  ■ —  " 

"  Craddock  is  excellent,  so  long  as  there  is  but 
one  Craddock,  but  when  there  are  some  dozens 
of  him  it  is  different,"  said  Dufour,  "  and  it  is 
the  process  of  multiplication  that  I  object  to. 
There's  Cable,  who  is  no  longer  a  genius  of  one 
species.  The  writers  of  Creole  stor i  es  are  swarm- 
ing by  the  score,  and,  poor  old  Uncle  Eemusl 
everybody  writes  negro  dialect  now.  Literary 
claim-jumpers  are  utterly  conscienceless.  The 
book  market  will  soon  be  utterly  ruined." 

Miss  Crabb  puffed  out  her  lean  sallow  cheeks 
and  sighed  heavily. 

"I  had  hoped,"  she  said,  "to  get  my  novel  on 
the  market  before  this,  but  I  have  not  yet  found 
a  publisher  to  suit  me." 

She  winced  inwardly  at  this  way  of  express- 
ing the  fact  that  every  publisher,  high  and  low, 
far  and  near,  had  declined  her  MS.  out  of  hand; 
but  she  could  not  say  the  awful  truth  in  its  sim- 
pliest  terms,  while  speaking  to  one  so  prosperous 
as  Dufour.  She  felt  that  she  must  at  all  haz- 
ards preserve  a  reasonable  show  of  literary  inde- 
pendence.    Crane  came  to  her  aid. 

"One  publisher  is  just  as  good  as  another," 
he  said  almost  savagely.  "They  are  all  thieves. 
They  report  every  book  a  failure,  save  those 
they  own  outright,  and  yet  they  all  get  rich.  I 
shall  publish  for  myself  my  next  volume." 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly,  77 

Dufour  smiled  grimly  and  turned  away.  It 
was  rather  monotonous,  this  iteration  and  reiter- 
ation of  so  grave  a  charge  against  the  moral 
character  of  publishers,  and  this  threat  of  Crane's 
to  become  his  own  publisher  was  a  bit  of  uncon- 
scious and  therefore  irresistible  hiimor. 

*'It's  too  pathetic  to  be  laughed  at,"  Dufour 
thought,  as  he  strolled  along  to  where  Miss 
Moyne  sat  under  a  tree,  "but  that  Kentuckian 
actually  thinks  himself  a  poet ! " 

With  all  his  good  nature  and  kind  hearted- 
ness,  Dufour  could  be  prejudiced,  and  he  drew 
the  line  at  what  he  called  the  "prevailing  ten- 
dency toward  boastful  prevarication  among 
Kentucky  gentlemen." 

As  he  walked  away  he  heard  Crane  saying: 

"George  Dunkirk  &  Co.  have  stolen  at  least 
twenty  thousand  dollars  in  royalties  from  me 
during  the  past  three  years." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Ferris  that  made  interrog- 
ative response: 

"  Js  Dunkirk  your  publisher?  " 

"  Yes,  or  rather  my  robber." 

"  Glad  of  it,  misery  loves  company." 

Dufour  half  turned  about  and  cast  a  quick 
glance  at  the  speakers.  He  did  not  say  any- 
thing, however,  but  resumed  his  progress  toward 
Miss  Moyne,  who  had  just  been  joined  by  Mrs. 
Nancy  Jones  Black,  a  stoutish  and  oldish  woman 
V'ery  famous  on  account  of  having  assumea 
touch  and  done  little.  Mrs.  Nancy  Jones  Black 
was  from  Boston.  She  was  president  of  the 
Woman's  Antiquarian  Club,  of  the  Ladies'  Greek 


78  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

Association,  of  The  Sappho  Patriotic  Club,  of 
the  Newport  Fashionable  Near-sighted  Club  for 
the  study  of  Esoteric  Transcendentalism,  and  it 
may  not  be  catalogued  how  many  more  societies 
and  clubs.  She  was  a  great  poet  who  had  never 
written  any  great  poem,  a  great  essayist  whom 
publishers  and  editors  avoided,  whom  critics 
regarded  as  below  mediocrity,  but  of  whom 
everybody  stood  in  breathless  awe,  and  she  was 
an  authority  in  many  literary  and  philosophical 
fields  of  which  she  really  knew  absolutely  noth- 
ing. She  was  a  reformer  and  a  person  of  influ- 
ence who  had  made  a  large  number  of  her  kins- 
folk famous  as  poets  and  novelists  without  any 
apparent  relevancy  between  the  fame  and  the 
literary  work  done.  If  your  name  were  Jones 
and  you  could  trace  out  your  relationship  to 
Mrs.  Nancy  Jones  Black  and  could  get  Mrs. 
Nancy  Jones  Black  interested  in  your  behalf, 
you  could  write  four  novels  a  year  with  great 
profit  ever  afterward. 

As  Dufour  approached  he  heard  Miss  Moyne 
say: 

"  I  publish  my  poor  little  works  with  George 
Dunkirk  &  Co.  and  the  firm  has  been  very  kind 
to  me.  I  feel  great  encouragement,  but  I  don't 
see  how  I  can  bear  this  horrible  newspaper 
familiarity  and  vulgarity." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Nancy  Jones 
Black,  placing  her  plump,  motherly  hand  on  the 
young  woman's  arm,  "  you  must  not  appear  to 
notice  it.  Do  as  did  my  daughter  Lois  when 
they  assailed  her  first  little  novel  with  sugar- 


A  Forinighi  of  Folly.  ^ 

plum  praise.  Why,  when  it  began  to  leak  out 
that  Lois  was  the  author  of  A  Sea-Side  Sym- 
phony the  poor  girl  was  almost  smothered  with 
praise.  Of  course  I  had  to  take  the  matter  in 
hand  and  under  my  advice  Lois  went  abroad  for 
six  months.  When  she  returned  she  found  her- 
self famous." 

"  Talking  shop  ?  "  inquired  Dufour,  accepting 
the  offer  of  a  place  on  the  bench  beside  Mrs. 
Black. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  with  a  comprehensive  wave 
of  her  hand,  "  I  am  taking  Miss  Moyne  under 
my  wing,  so  to  say,  and  am  offering  her  the 
comfort  of  my  experience.  She  is  a  genius 
whom  it  doesn't  spoil  to  praise.  She's  going  to 
be  the  next  sensation  in  the  East." 

"  I  suggested  as  much  to  her,"  said  Dufour. 
"  She  is  already  on  a  strong  wave,  but  she  must 
try  and  avoid  being  refractory,  you  know."  He 
said  this  in  a  straightforward,  business  way, 
but  his  voice  was  touched  with  a  certain  sort 
of  admirable  tenderness. 

Miss  Moyne  was  looking  out  over  the  deep, 
hazy  valley,  her  cheeks  still  warm  with  the 
thought  of  that  newspaper  portrait  with  its 
shabby  clothes  and  towsled  bangs.  What  was 
fame,  bought  at  such  a  price !  She  bridled  a 
little,  but  did  not  turn  her  head  as  she  said . 

"I  am  not  refractory,  I  am  indignant,  and  I 
have  a  right  to  be.  They  cannot  justify  the 
liberty  they  have  taken,  besides  I  will  not 
accept  notoriety — I — " 

"  There,  now,  dear,  that  is  what  Lois  said,  and 


8o  A  Fcrtnighi  of  Folly. 

Milton  John  Jones,  my  nephew,  was  at  first 
bound  that  he  wouldn't  let  Tom,  my  brother, 
advertise  him ;  but  he  soon  saw  his  way  clear, 
I  assure  you,  and  now  he  publishes  '-^ur  serials 
at  once.     Be  prudent,  dear,  be  pnidcjio." 

"  But  the  idea  of  picturing  me  w:  h  great  bar- 
baric rings  in  my  ears  and  wit^h  a  corkscrew 
curl  on  each  side  and — " 

Dufour  interrupted  her  with  a  laugh  almost 
hearty  enough  to  be  called  a  guffaw,  and  Mrs. 
Black  smiled  indulgently  as  if  at  a  clever  child 
which  must  be  led,  not  driven. 

"  Being  conscious  that  you  really  are  stylish 
and  beautiful,  you  needn't  care  for  the  picture," 
said  Dufour,  in  a  tone  of  sturdy  sincerity. 

"There  is  nothing  so  effective  as  a  foil," 
added  Mrs.  Black. 

Miss  Mojme  arose  and  with  her  pretty  chin 
slightly  elevated  walked  away. 

"How  beautiful  she  is! "  exclaimed  Dufour, 
gazing  after  her,  "  and  I  am  delighted  to  know 
that  you  are  taking  an  interest  in  her." 

Mrs.  Black  smiled  complacently,  and  with  a 
bland  side  wise  glance  at  him,  remarked  : 

"  She  grows  upon  one." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  with  self-satisfied  obtuse- 
ness,  "  yes,  she  is  magnetic,  she  is  a  genuine 
genius." 

"Precisely,  she  stirs  one's  heart  strangely," 
replied  Mrs.  Black. 

"  Yes,  I  have  noted  that ;  it's  very  remarka- 
ble." 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  Si 

"  You  should  speak  of  it  to  her  at  the  first 
opportunity." 

Dufour  started  a  httle,  flushed  and  finally 
laughed  as  one  does  who  discovers  a  bit  of 
clever  and  harmless  treachery. 

"If  I  only  dared,"  he  presently  said,  with 
something  very  like  fervor  in  his  tone.  "  If  I 
only  dared." 

Mrs.  Black  looked  at  him  a  moment,  as  if 
measuring  in  her  mind  his  degree  of  worthiness, 
then  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  she  said: 

"  Never  do  you  dare  to  dare.  Mr.  Crane  stands 
right  in  your  path." 

Dufour  leaped  to  his  feet  with  the  nimHenesa 
and  dangerous  celerity  of  a  tiger. 

"  Crane  !  "  he  exclaimed  with  a  world  of  con- 
tempt in  his  voice,  "  If  he — "  but  he  stopped 
short  and  lauo-hed  at  himself. 

Mrs.  Black  looked  at  him  with  a  patronizing 
expression  in  her  eyes. 

"  Leave  it  to  me,"  she  said,  in  her  most  insin- 
uating tone. 

XIII. 

Crane  tried  not  to  show  the  bitterness  he  felt 
as  he  saw  his  hope  of  winning  the  favor  of  Miss 
Moyne  fading  rapidly  out,  but  now  and  again  a 
cloud  of  irresistible  melancholy  fell  upon  him. 

At  such  times  it  was  his  habit  to  lean  upon 
the  new  fence  that  circumscribed  Hotel  Helicon 
and  dreamily  smoke  a  cigar.  He  felt  a  blind 
desire  to  assassinate  somebody,  if  he  could  only 
know  who.     Of  course  not  Peck,  for  Peck,  too, 


82  A  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

wa»  disconsolate,  but  somebody,  anybody  who 
would  claim  the  place  of  a  successful  rival. 

One  moruing  while  he  stood  thus  regaling 
himself  with  his  tobacco  and  his  misery,  Tolli- 
ver  rode  up,  on  a  handsome  horse  this  time, 
and,  lifting  his  broad  hat,  bowed  picturesquely 
and  said : 

"  Good  mornin,'  Kyernel,  how're  ye  this 
mornin'  ?  " 

"  Good  morning."  growled  Crane. 

Tolliver  looked  off  over  the  valley  and 
up  at  the  sky  which  was  flecked  with  tags  of 
fleece -cloud. 

"  Hit  look  like  hit  mought  rain  in  er  day  er 
two,"  he  remaiked. 

"Yes,  I  don't  know,  quite  likely,"  said  Crane, 
gazing  evasively  in  another  direction. 

"  Ever' body's  well,  I  s'pose,  up  ther'  at  the 
tavern  ?  "  inquired  Tolliver. 

"  I  believe  so,"  was  the  cold  answer. 

Tolliver  leaned  over  the  pommel  of  nis 
saddle-tree  and  combed  his  horse's  mane  with 
his  sinewy  fingers.  Meantime  the  expression 
in  his  face  was  one  of  exceeding  embarrassment 
blent  with  cunning. 

"  Kyernel,  c'u'd  ye  do  a  feller  a  leetle  yerrent 
what's  of  importance  ?  "  he  asked  with  peculiar 
faltering. 

"  Do  what  ?  "  inquired  Crane  lifting  his  eye- 
brows and  turning  the  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

"  Jest  a  leetle  frien'ly  job  o'  kindness,"  said 
Tolliver,  "jest  ter  please  ask  thet  young  leddy 
— thet  Miss  Crabb  'at  I  fotch  up  yer  on  er  mule 


"A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  83 

tother  day,  ye  know ;  well,  jest  ax  her  for  me  ef 
I  moughtn't  come  in  an'  see  'er  on  pertic'lar  an' 
pressin'  business,  ef  ye  please,  sir." 

By  this  time  the  mountaineer's  embarrassment 
had  become  painfully  apparent.  Any  good 
judge  of  human  nature  could  have  seen  at  once 
that  he  was  almost  overcome  with  the  burden  and 
worry  of  the  matter  in  hand.  His  cheeks  were 
pale  and  his  eyes  appeared  to  be  fading  into  utter 
vacancy  of  expression.  Crane  told  him  that 
there  was  no  need  to  be  particularly  formal,  that 
if  he  would  go  in  and  ask  for  Miss  Crabb  she 
would  see  him  in  the  parlor. 

"  But,  Kyernel,  hit's  er  private,  sort  er  confi- 
dential confab  'at  I  must  hev  wi'  'er,  an' " 

''  Oh,  well,  that's  all  right,  you'll  not  be  inter- 
rupted in  the  parlor." 

"  Air  ye  pine  blank  shore  of  it,  Kyernel  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"Dead  shore?" 

"  Quite,  I  assure  you." 

Crane  had  become  interested  in  Tolliver's 
affair,  whatever  it  might  be.  He  could  not 
keep  from  sharing  the  man's  evident  intensity 
of  mood,  and  all  the  time  he  was  wondering 
what  the  matter  could  be.  Certainly  no  com- 
mon-place subject  could  so  affect  a  man  of  iron 
like  Tolliver.  The  poet's  lively  imagination 
was  all  aglow  over  the  mystery,  but  it  could 
not  formulate  any  reasonable  theory  of  explana- 
tion. 

Miss  Crabb  appeared  in  the  parlor  promptly 
and  met  Tolliver  .with  a  cordiality  that,  instead 


84  ^  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

of  reassuring  him,  threw  him  into  another 
fit  of  embarrassment  from  which  he  at  first 
made  no  effort  to  recover.  His  wide-brimmed 
hat,  as  he  twirled  it  on  his  knees,  quivered  con- 
vulsively in  accord  with  the  ague  of  excitement 
with  which  his  whole  frame  was  shaking.  He 
made  certain  soundless  movements  with  his  lips, 
as  if  muttering  to  himself. 

Miss  Crabb  at  first  did  not  notice  his  confu- 
sion, and  went  on  talking  rapidly,  reiterating 
thanks  for  the  kindness  he  had  shown  her  in  her 
recent  mishap,  and  managing  to  put  into  her 
voice  some  tones  that  to  him  sounded  very  tender 
and  sweet. 

"  You  don't  know — you  can't  imagine,  Mr. 
Tolliver,  what  I  suffered  during  that'  awful 
night,"  she  said,  turning  her  head  to  one  side 
and  drawing  her  chin  under  until  it  almost  dis- 
appeared in  the  lace  at  her  throat.  '*  It  was  hor- 
rible." 

Tolliver  looked  at  her  helplessly,  his  mouth 
open,  his  eyes  dull  and  sunken. 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  discover  me  up  there, 
anyway,  Mr.  Tolliver?"  she  demanded,  leaning 
toward  him  and  laughing  a  little. 

"  The  dog  he  treed  ye,  an'  then  I  seed  ye  settin' 
up  ther'  er  writin'  away,"  he  managed  to  say,  a 
wave  of  relief  passing  over  his  face  at  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice. 

"  It  was  perfectly  ridiculous,  perfectly  pre- 
posterous," she  exclaimed,  "  but  I'm  mighty 
thankful  that  I  was  not  hurt." 

"■  Yes,  well  ye  mought  be.  Miss  Crabb,"  he 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  85 

stammered  out.  "Wonder  ye  wasn't  scrunclied 
inter  pieces  an'  scattered  all  eround  t-lier'." 

She  slipped  out  her  book,  took  a  pencil  from 
over  her  ear  and  made  a  note. 

Tolliver  eyed  her  dolefully.  "  How  do  you 
spell  scrunched,  Mr.  Tolliver,  in  your  dialect  ?  " 
she  paused  to  inquire. 

His  jaw  fell  a  little  lower  for  a  moment,  then 
he  made  an  effort: 

"  S — q — r — u  — "  he  paused  and  shook  his 
head,  "  S — q — ^k — no  thet's  not  hit — s- — k — q — 
r — dorg  ef  I  ken  spell  thet  word — begging 
yer  parding,  hit  air  'tirely  too  hard  for  me." 
He  settled  so  low  in  his  chair  that  his  knees 
appeared  almost  as  high  as  his  head. 

"  All  right,"  she  cheerily  exclaimed,  "  I  can 
get  it  phonetically.  It's  a  new  word.  I  don't 
think  either  Craddock  or  Johnson  uses  it,  it's 
valuable." 

There  was  a  silence  during  which  Miss  Crabb 
thoughtfully  drummed  on  her  projecting  front 
teeth  with  the  end  of  her  pencil. 

Tolliver  nerved  himself  and  said: 

"  Miss  Crabb  I — I,  well,  ye  know,  I — that  is, 
begging  yer  parding,  but  I  hev  something'  I 
want  er  say  ter  ye,  ef  ye  please."  He  glanced 
furtively  around,  as  if  suspecting  that  some 
person  lay  secreted  among  the  curtains  of  a  bay 
window  hard  by.  And  indeed,  Dufour  was 
there,  lightly  indulging  in  a  morning  nap,  while 
the  mountain  breeze  flowed  over  him.  He  was 
in  a  deep  bamboo  chair  behind  those  very  cur- 
tains. 


86  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

"Oh,  certainly,  certainly,  Mr.  Tolliver,  go  on, 
I  shall  be  delighted,  charmed  indeed,  to  hear 
what  you  have  to  say,"  Miss  Crabb  responded, 
turning  a  fresh  leaf  of  her  note-book  and  putting 
on  a  hopeful  look. 

"  I  hope  yell  stick  ter  thet  after  I've  done 
said  it  ter  ye,"  he  proceeded  to  say,  "  but  dorg 
on  me  ef  I  know  how  ter  begin  sayin'  it." 

"Oh,  just  go  right  on,  it's  all  right;  I  assure 
yoa,  Mr.  Tolliver,  I  am  Y^r^  anxious  to  hear." 

"Mebbe  ye  air,  I  don't  dispute  yer  word, 
but  I  feel  mighty  onery  all  the  same." 

"Onery  is  a  Western  word,"  mused  Miss 
Crabb,  making  a  note. 

"Proceed,  Mr.  Tolliver,"  she  continued  after 
a  pause,  "proceed,  I  am  listening  with  great 
interest." 

"What  I'm  ergwine  ter  state  ter  ye  mought 
mek  ye  mad,  but  hit  can't  be  holp,  I  jest  hev 
ter  say  it — I  air  jest  erbleeged  ter  say  it." 

H«is  voice  was  husky  and  he  was  assuming  a 
tragic  air.  Miss  Crabb  felt  a  strange  thrill 
creep  throughout  her  frame  as  a  sudden  suspi- 
cion seemed  to  leap  back  and  forth  between  her 
heart  and  her  brain. 

"  N'o,  I  assure  you  that  I  could  not  be  angry 
with  you,  Mr.  Tolliver,  under  any  circum- 
stances," she  murmured,  "you  have  been  so 
very  kind  to  me." 

"  Hit  air  awful  confusin'  an'  hit  mek  a  feller 
feel  smaller  'n  a  mouse  ter  speak  it  right  out, 
but  then  hit  air  no  foolishness,  hit  air  pine 
blank  business." 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly,  87 

*'0f  course,"  said  Miss  Crabb  pensively, 
"of  course  you  feel  some  embarrassment." 

He  hitched  himself  up  in  his  chair  and  crossed 
his  legs. 

"Ef  ye  don't  like  w'at  I  say,  w'y  I  won't 
blame  ye  a  bit.  I  feel  jest  as  if  I  wer  a  doin' 
somethin'  'at  I  hadn't  orter  do,  but  my  mammy 
she  say  I  must,  an'  that  do  everlastin'ly  settle 
it." 

"  Yes,  your  mother's  advice  is  always  safe.'* 

"Safe,  I  shed  say  so!  Hit's  mighty  onsafe 
fer  me  not  ter  foller  it,  I  kin  tell  ye.  She'd 
thump  my  old  gourd  fer  me  in  ermazin'  style 
ef  I  didn't." 

"  Thump  my  old  gourd,"  repeated  Miss  Crabb, 
making  a  note.     "  Go  on,  Mr.  Tolliver,  please." 

"S'pose  I  mought  as  well,  seein'  'at  it  has 
ter  be  said."  He  paused,  faltered,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded :  "  Well,  beggin'  yer  parding.  Miss 
Crabb,  but  ever  sence  ye  wer'  down  ther'  ter 
we  all's  cabin,  hit's  been  a  worrjrin'  my  mammy 
and  me,  an'  we  hev'  talked  it  all  over  an' 
over." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Miss  Crabb. 

'■  Hit's  not  the  cost  of  them  beads,  Miss  Crabb, 
they  air  not  wo'th  much,  but  they  was  guv  ter 
mammy  by  her  aunt  Mandy  Ann  Bobus,  an' 
she  feel  like  she  jest  can't  give  'em  up." 

M'ss  Crabb  looked  puzzled. 

"Ef  ye'll  jest  erblige  me  an'  hand  them  beads 
over  ter  me,  I'll  never  say  er  wo'd  ter  nobody 
ner  nothin." 

"Mr.   Tolliver,  what  in   the   world   do  you 


88  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

mean?"  cried  Miss  Crabb,  rising  and  standing 
before  him  with  a  face  that  flamed  with  sudden 


''  Ye  mought  er  tuck  'em  kinder  accidentally, 
ye  know,"  he  suggested  in  a  conciliatory  tone, 
rising  also. 

"Mr.  Tolliver!"  she  almost  screamed, 

*'Ther'  now,  be  still,  er  ye'll  let  ever'body 
know  all  erboat  it,"  he  half  whispered.  "  Hit'd 
be  disgraceful." 

"Mr.  Tolliver!" 

"Sh-h-h!     They'll  hear  ye!" 

"  Get  right  out  of  this  room,  you — 

Just  then  Dufour,  who  had  been  slowly 
aroused  from  his  nap  and  who  while  yet  half 
asleep  had  overheard  much  of  what  had  been 
said,  stepped  forth  from  behind  the  curtains  and 
stood  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  the 
excited  actors  in  the  little  drama. 

"  What's  up  ?  "  he,  demanded  bluntly. 

"He's  accusing  me  of  stealing  beads !"  cried 
Miss  Crabb.     "He's  insulting  mel" 

"  What  1 "  exclaimed  Dufour,  glaring  at  Tol- 
liver. 

"I  feel  mighty  onery  a  doin' it,"  said  Tolli- 
ver, "  but  hit  air  pine  blank  mighty  suspicious, 
Kyernel,  hit  air  for  a  fac'." 

Dufour  looked  as  if  he  hardly  knew  which  he 
should  do,  laugh  boisterously,  or  fling  Tolliver 
out  of  the  window,  but  he  quickly  pulled  him- 
self together  and  said  calmly : 

"You  are  wrong,  sir,  and  you  must  apolo- 
gize." 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  89 

"Certingly,  certingty,"  said  Tolliver,  "tliet 
air  jest  what  I  air  a  doin'.  I  beg  parding  er 
tbousan'  times  fer  sayin'  what  I  hev,  bat,  Kyer- 
nel,  hit  air  a  Lor'  a  mighty's  truth,  all  the  same, 
le'  me  tell  ye.  Them  beads  was  ther'  w'en  she 
come,  an'  they  was  gone  w'en  she  was  gone, 
an'—" 

"Stop  that!  Take  back  those  words  or  I'll 
throw  you — " 

Dufour  took  a  step  towards  Tolliver,  but 
stopped  suddenly  when  the  latter  drew  a  huge 
revolver  with  one  hand  and  a  long  crooked 
bowie-knife  with  the  other  and  said: 

"  No  yer  don't,  Kj^ernel,  not  by  er  good  deal. 
Jest  ye  open  yer  bread-trap  ergain  an'  I'll  jest 
clean  up  this  ole  shanty  in  erbout  two  min- 
utes." 

It  may  not  be  inferred  how  this  bit  of 
dramatic  experience  would  have  ended  had  not 
a  lean,  wizzen-faced  mountain  lad  rushed  in 
just  then  with  a  three-cornered  piece  of  paper 
in  his  hand  upon  which  w^as  scrawled  the  fol- 
lowing message : 

"  I  hev  fown  them  beeds.  They  wus  in  mi 
terbacker  bag." 

TolHver  read  this  and  wilted. 

The  boy  was  panting  and  almost  exhausted. 
He  had  run  all  the  way  up  the  mountain  from 
the  TolHver  cabin. 

"Yer  mammy  say  kum  home,"  he  gasped. 

"Hit  air  jest  as  I  'spected,"  said  Tolliver. 
"Mammy  hev  made  a  pine  blank  eejit  of  me 


90  A  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

lie  spoke.  His  pistol  and  knife  had  disap- 
peared. 

A  full  explanation  followed,  and  at  the  end 
of  a  half-hour  Tolliver  went  away  crest-fallen 
but  happy. 

As  for  Miss  Crabb  she  had  made  a  number 
of  valuable  dialect  notes. 

Dufour  promised  not  to  let  the  rest  of  the 
guests  know  what  had  just  happened  in  the 
parlor. 

XIY. 

"  Literature-making  has  not  yet  taken  the 
rank  of  a  profession,  but  of  late  the  world  has 
modified  its  opinion  as  to  the  ability  of  literary 
people  to  drive  a  close  bargain,  or  to  manags 
financial  affairs  with  success.  Many  women 
and  some  men  have  shown  that  it  is  possible 
for  a  vivid  imagination  and  a  brilliant  style  in 
writing  to  go  close  along  with  a  practical  judg- 
ment and  a  fair  share  of  selfish  shrewdness  in 
matters  of  bargain  and  sale.  Still,  after  all,  it 
remains  true  that  a  strong  majority  of  literary 
people  are  of  the  Micawber  genus,  with  great 
faith  in  what  is  to  turn  up,  always  nicely  bal- 
ancing themselves  on  the  extreme  verge  of 
expectancy  and  gazing  over  into  the  promise- 
land  of  fame  and  fortune  with  pathetically  hope- 
ful, yet  awfully  hollow  eyes.  Indeed  there  is 
no  species  of  gambling  more  uncertain  in  its 
results  or  more  irresistibly  fascinat'ng  to  its  vic- 
tims than  literary  gambling.  Day  after  day, 
month     after     month,    year     after    year,    the 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  91 

deluded,  enthusiastic,  ever  defeated  but  never 
discouraged  writer  plies  his  pen,  besieges  the 
publishers  and  editors,  receives  their  rebufifs, 
rough  or  smooth,  takes  back  his  declined  manu- 
scripts, tries  it  over  and  over,  sweats,  fumes, 
execrates,  coaxes,  bullies,  raves,  re- writes,  takes  a 
new  nom  de  plume  and  new  courage,  goes  on  and 
on  to  the  end.  Here  or  there  rumor  goes  that 
some  fortunate  literator  has  turned  the  right 
card  and  has  drawn  a  great  prize ;  this  rumor, 
never  quite  authentic,  is  enough  to  re-invigorate 
all  the  fainting  scribblers  and  to  entice  new  vic- 
tims into  the  gilded  casino  of  the  Cadmean  vice. 
The  man  who  manipulates  the  literary  machine 
is  the  publisher,  that  invisible  person  who  usu- 
ally grows  rich  upon  the  profits  of  unsuccessful 
books.  He  it  is  who  inveigles  the  infatuated 
young  novelist,  essayist,  or  poet,  into  the  beau- 
tiful bunco-den  of  the  book  business  and  there 
fastens  him  and  holds  him  as  long^  as  he  will 
not  squeal ;  but  at  the  first  note  of  remonstrance 
he  kicks  him  out  and  fills  his  place  with  a  fresh 
victim.  The  literary  Micawber,  however,  does 
not  despair.  He  may  be  a  little  silly  from  the 
efiect  of  the  summersault  to  which  the  pub- 
lisher's boot  has  treated  him,  but  after  a 
distraught  look  about  him  he  gets  up,  brushes 
the  dust  off  his  seedy  clothes  and  goes  directly 
back  into  the  den  again  with  another  manu- 
script under  his  arm  and  with  a  feverish  faith 
burning  in  his  deep-set  eyes.  What  serene  and 
beautiful  courage,  by  the  'way,  have  the  literary 
women  I     Of  course  the  monster  who  presides 


92  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

at  the  publisher's  desk  cannot  be  as  brutal  to 
her  as  he  is  to  men,  but  he  manipulates  her 
copyright  statements  all  the  same,  so  that  her 
book  never  passes  the  line  of  fifteen  hundred 
copies  sold.  How  can  we  ever  account  for  a 
woman  who  has  written  forty-three  novels  under 
such  circumstances  and  has  died,  finally,  a 
devout  Christian  and  a  staunch  friend  of  her 
publisher  ?  Poor  thing  !  up  to  the  hour  of  her 
demise,  white-haired,  wrinkled,  over-worked, 
nervous  and  semi-paralytic,  she  nursed  the  rosy 
hope  that  to-morrow,  or  at  the  very  latest,  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  the  reward  of  all  her  self- 
devotion  would  come  to  her  in  the  form  of  a 
liberal  copyright  statement  from  her  long-suf- 
fering and  charitable  publisher. 

"Out  in  the  West  they  have  a  disease  called 
milk-sickness,  an  awful  malady,  of  Avhich  every- 
body stands  in  deadly  terror,  but  which  nobody 
has  ever  seen.  If  you  set  out  to  find  a  case  of 
milk-sickness  it  is  like  following  a  will-d'-the- 
ivisij^  it  is  always  just  a  little  way  farther  on, 
over  in  the  next  settlement ;  you  never  find  it. 
The  really  successful  author  in  America  is,  like 
the  milk-sicknes*3,  never  visible,  except  on  the 
remote  horizon.  You  hear  much  of  him,  but 
you  never  have  the  pleasure  of  shaking  his 
cunning  right  hand.  The  fact  is,  he  is  a  myth. 
On  the  other  hand,  however,  the  American 
cities  are  full  of  successful  publishers  who  have 
become  millionaires  upon  the  profits  of  books 
which  have  starved  their  authors.  Of  course 
this  appears  to  be  a  paradox,  but  I  suppose  that 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  93 

it  can  be  explained  by  the  rule  of  profit  and 
loss.    The  author's  loss  is  the  publisher's  profit." 

The  foregoing  is,  in  substance,  the  opening 
part  of  an  address  delivered  by  Ferris  before  the 
assembled  guests  of  Hotel  Helicon. 

Mrs.  Nancy  Jones  Black  presided  at  the 
meeting ;  indeed  she  always  presided  at  meet- 
ings. On  this  occasion,  which  was  informal  and 
impromptu,  Ferris  was  in  excellent  mood  for 
speaking,  as  he  just  had  been  notified  by  a  letter 
from  Dunkirk  &  Co.  that  he  was  expected  to 
pay  in  advance  for  the  plates  of  his  new  romance, 
A  Mysterious  Missive^  and  that  a  personal  check 
would  not  be  accepted — a  draft  on  New  York 
must  be  sent  forthwith.  Although  Ferris  was 
a  thoroughly  good  fellow,  who  cared  nothing 
for  money  as  money,  this  demand  for  a  sum  the 
half  of  which  he  could  not  command  if  his  life 
were  at  stake,  hit  him  like  a  bullet-stroke.  A 
chance  to  talk  off  the  soreness  of  the  wound  was 
accepted  with  avidity.  He  felt  guilty  of  a 
meanness,  it  is  true,  in  thus  stirring  up  old 
troubles  and  opening  afresh  ancient  hurts  in  the 
breasts  of  his  listening  friends  ;  but  the  relief  to 
him  was  so  great  that  he  could  not  forego  it.  "  The 
American  publisher,"  he  went  on,  "  proclaims 
himself  a  fraud  by  demanding  of  the  author  a 
contract  which  places  the  author's  business 
wholly  in  the  control  of  the  publisher.  I  take 
it  that  publishers  are  just  as  honest  and  just  as 
dishonest,  as  any  other  class  of  respectable  men. 
You  know  and  I  know,  that,  as  a  rule,  the  man 
who  trusts  his  business   entirely  to  others  will, 


94  ^  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

in  the  long  run,  be  robbed.  Administrators  of 
estates,  rob  the  heirs,  in  two-thirds  of  the 
instances,  as  every  probate  lawyer  well  knows. 
Every  merchant  has  to  treat  his  clerks  and  sales- 
men as  if  they  were  thieves,  or  if  he  do  not  they 
will  become  thieves.  The  government  has  to 
appoint  bank  examiners  to  watch  the  bankers, 
and  yet  they  steal.  The  Indian  agents  steal 
from  the  government.  Senators  steal,  aldermen 
steal,  Wall  street  men  steal  from  one  another 
and  from  everybody  else.  Canada  is  overflow- 
ing with  men  who  have  betrayed  and  robbec) 
those  who  trusted  their  business  with  them 
Even  clergymen  (that  poorly  paid  and  much- 
abused  class)  now  and  again  fall  before  the  temp- 
tation offered  by  the  demon  of  manipulated 
returns  of  trust  funds.  The  fact  is,  one  may 
feel  perfectly  safe  in  saying  that  in  regard 
to  all  the  professions,  trades,  and  occupations, 
there  is  absolutely  no  safety  in  trusting  one's 
affairs  wholly  in  the  hands  of  another.  (Great 
applause).  Even  your  milkman  waters  the 
milk  and  the  dairyman  sells  you  butter  that 
never  was  in  a  churn.  If  you  neglect  to  keep 
a  pass-book  your  grocer  runs  up  the  bill  to— 
fa  great  rustle,  and  some  excited  whispering)  up 
to  something  enormous.  Of  course  it  is  not 
everybody  that  is  dishonest,  but  experience 
shows  that  if  a  man  has  the  temptation  to 
defraud  his  customers  constantly  before  him, 
with  absolutely  no  need  to  fear  detection,  he 
will   soon   reason   himself  into  believing  it  his 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  95 

riglit   io   have  the  lion's  share  of  all  that  goes 
into  his  hands, 

"  Now  isn't  it  strange,  in  view  of  the  premises, 
that  nobody  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a 
publisher  being  convicted  of  making  false 
returns?  Is  it  possible  that  the  business  of 
book- publishing  is  so  pure  and  good  of  itself 
that  it  attracts  to  it  none  but  perfect  men? 
(Great  applause).  Publishers  do  fail  financially 
once  in  a  while,  but  their  books  of  accounts 
invariably  show  that  just  eleven  hundred  and 
forty  copies  of  each  copjrrighted  book  on  their 
lists  have  been  sold  to  date,  no  more,  no  less. 
(Suppressed  applause).  Nobody  ever  saw 
cleaner  or  better  balanced  books  of  accounts 
than  those  kept  by  the  publishers.  They  foot 
up  correctly  to  a  cent.  Indeed  it  would  be  a 
very  strange  thing  if  a  man  couldn't  make 
books  balance  under  such  circumstances !  (Pro- 
longed hand -clapping).  I  am  rather  poor  at 
double  entry,  but  I  fancy  I  could  make  a  credit 
of  eleven  hundred  and  forty  copies  sold,  so  as 
to  have  it  show  up  all  right.  (Cheers).  I  must 
not  lose  my  head  in  speaking  on  this  sub- 
ject, for  I  cannot  permit  you  to  misunderstand 
my  motive.  So  long  as  authors  submit  to  the 
per  centum  method  of  publication,  so  long  they 
will  be  the  prey  of  the  publishers.  The  only 
method  by  which  justice  can  be  assured  to  both 
author  and  publisher  is  the  cash -sale  method. 
If  every  author  in  America  would  refuse  to  let 
his  manuscript  go  out  of  hand  before  he  had 
received  the  cash  value  for  it,  the  trade  would 


g6  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

soon  adjust  itself  properly.  In  that  case  the 
author's  reputation  would  be  his  own  property. 
So  soon  as  he  had  made  an  audience  his  manu- 
scripts would  command  a  certain  price.  If  one 
pubhsber  would  not  pay  enough  for  it  another 
would.  As  the  method  now  is,  it  makes  little 
difference  whether  the  author  have  a  reputation 
or  not.  Indeed  most  publishers  prefer  to  pub- 
lish the  novels,  for  example,  of  clever  tyros, 
because  these  fledglings  are  so  proud  of  seeing 
themselves  in  print  that  they  never  think  of 
questioning  copyright  statements.  Eleven  hun- 
dred and  forty  copies  usually  will  delight  them 
almost  beyond  endurance.  (Laughter  and  ap- 
plause). Go  look  at  the  book  lists  of  the  pub- 
lishers and  you  will  feel  the  truth  of  what  I  have 
said. 

"  Now  let  me  ask  you  if  you  can  give,  or  if 
any  publisher  can  give  one  solitary  honest  rea- 
son why  the  publishing  business  should  not  be 
put  upon  a  cash  basis — a  manuscript  for  so  much 
money?  The  publisher  controls  his  own  busi- 
ness, he  knows  every  nook  and  corner,  every 
leaf  and  every  line  of  it,  and  he  should  be  able 
to  say,  just  as  the  corn-merchant  does,  I  will 
give  you  so  much,  to  which  the  author  would 
say :  I  will  take  it,  or  I  will  not  take  it.  But 
what  is  the  good  of  standing  here  and  arguing? 
You  believe  every  word  I  speak,  but  you  don't 
expect  to  profit  by  it.  You  will  go  on  gambling 
at  the  publisher's  faro  table  just  as  long  as  he 
will  smile  and  deal  the  cards.     Some  of  these 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  97 

days  you  will  win,  you  think.     Poor  deluded 
wretches,  go  on  and  die  m  the  faith  ! " 

No  sooner  had  Ferris  ended  than  Lucas  the 
historian  arose  and  expressed  grave  doubts  as 
to  the  propriety  of  the  address.  He  was  decid- 
edly of  the  opinion  that  authors  could  not  afford 
to  express  themselves  so  freely  and,  if  he  must 
say  it,  recklessly.  How  could  Mr.  Ferris  sub- 
stantiate by  proof  any  of  the  damaging  allega- 
tions he  had  made  against  publishers  of  high 
standing?  What  Mr.  Ferris  had  said  might  be 
strictly  true,  but  the  facts  were  certainly,  very 
hard  to  come  at,  he  thought.  He  hoped  that 
Mr.  Ferris's  address  would  not  be  reported  to  the 
press  (here  he  glanced  appealingly  at  Miss 
Crabb),  at  least  not  as  the  sense  of  the  meeting. 
Such  a  thing  would,  in  his  opinion,  be  liable  to 
work  a  great  harm  to  all  present.  He  felt  sure 
that  the  publishers  would  resent  the  whole 
thing  as  malicious  and  libellous. 

Throughout  the  audience  there  was  a  nervous 
stirring,  a  looking  at  one  another  askance.  It 
was  as  if  a  cold  wave  had  flowed  over  them. 
Nobody  had  anything  further  to  say,  and  it  was 
a  great  relief  when  Dufour  moved  an  adjourn- 
ment sine  die^  which  was  carried  by  a  vote  that 
suggested  a  reserve  of  power.  Every  face  in 
the  audience,  with  the  exception  of  Dufour's, 
wore  a  half- guilty  look,  and  everybody  crept 
silently  out  of  the  room. 
7 


98  A  Portnight  of  Fotty, 

XV. 

It  caused  quite  a  commotion  on  Mt.  Boab 
when  Bartley  Hubbard  and  Miss  Henrietta 
Stackpole,  newspaper  people  from  Boston, 
arrived  at  Hotel  Helicon.  Miss  Stackpole  had 
just  returned  from  Europe,  and  Bartley  Hub- 
bard had  run  down  from  Boston  for  a  week  to 
get  some  points  for  his  .paper.  She  had  met 
Mr.  Henry  James  on  the  continent  and  Hubbard 
had  dined  with  Mr.  Ho  wells  just  before  leaving 
Boston. 

No  two  persons  in  all  the  world  would  have 
been  less  welcome  among  the  guests  at  the  hotel, 
just  then,  than  were  these  professional  reporters. 
Of  course  everybody  tried  to  give  them  a  cordial 
greeting,  but  they  were  classed  along  with  Miss 
Crabb  as  dangerous  characters  whom  it  would 
be  folly  to  snub.  Miss  Moyne  was  in  down- 
right terror  of  them,  associating  the  thought  of 
tnem  with  those  ineffable  pictures  of  herself 
which  were  still  appearing  at  second  and  third 
hand  in  the  "patent  insides"  of  the  country 
journals,  but  she  was  very  good  to  them,  and 
Miss  Stackpole  at  once  attached  herself  to  lier 
unshakably.  Hubbard  did  likewise  with  little 
Mrs.  Philpot,  who  amused  him  mightily  with 
her  strictures  upon  analytical  realism  in  fiction, 

"I  do  think  that  Mr.  Ho  wells  treated  you 
most  shamefully,"  she  said  to  him.  "He  had 
no  right  to  represent  you  as  a  disagreeable  per- 
son who  was  cruel  to  his  wife  and  who  had  no 
moral  stamina." 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  99 

Hubbard  laughed  as  one  who  hears  an  absurd 
joke.  "  Oh,  Howells  and  I  have  an  understand- 
ing. We  are  really  great  friends,"  he  said.  "  I 
sat  to  him  for  inj  portrait  and  I  really  think  he 
flattered  me.  I  managed  to  keep  him  from  see- 
ing some  of  my  ugliest  lines." 

"Now  you  are  not  quite  sincere,"  said  Mrs. 
Phil  pot,  glancing  over  him  from  head  to  foot. 
"  You  are  not  so  bad  as  he  made  you  out  to  be. 
It's  one  of  Mr.  Howells's  hobbies  to  represent 
men  as  rather  flabby  nonentities  and  women  as 
invalids  or  dolls." 

"  He's  got  the  men  down  fine,"  replied  Hub- 
bard, "  but  I  guess  he  is  rather  light  on  women. 
You  will  admit,  however,  that  he  dissects  fem- 
inine meanness  and  inconsequence  with  a  deft 
torn." 

"  He  makes  fun  of  women,"  said  Mrs.  Philpot, 
a  little  testily,  "  he  caricatures  them,  wreaks  his 
humor  on  them ;  but  you  know  very  well  that 
he  misrepresents  them  even  in  his  most  serious 
and  quasi  truthful  moods." 

Hubbard  laughed,  and  there  was  something 
essentially  vulgar  in  the  notes  of  the  laugh. 
Mrs.  Philpot  admitted  this  mentally,  and  she 
found  herself  shrinking  from  his  steadfast  but 
almost  conscienceless  eyes. 

"  I  imagine  I  shouldn't  be  as  bad  a  husband 
as  he  did  me  into,  but — " 

Mrs.  Philpot  interrupted  him  with  a  start  and 
a  little  cry. 

"  Dear  me !    and   aren't  you   married  ? "    she 


100  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

asked  in  exclamatory  deprecation  of  what  his 
words  had  implied. 

He  laughed  again  very  coarsely  and  loolced 
at  her  with  eyes  that  almost  lured.  "  Mar- 
ried !  "  he  exclaimed,  "do  I  look  like  a  marry- 
ing man?  A  newspaper  man  can't  afford  to 
marry." 

"  How  strange , "  reflected  Mrs.  Philpot, 
"  how  funny,  and  Mr.  Howells  calls  himself  a 
reahst!  " 

''  Eealist !  '*  laughed  Hubbard,  "  wh}^  he  does 
not  know  enough  about  the  actual  world  to  be 
competent  to  purchase  a  family  horse.  He's  a 
capital  fellow,  good  and  true  and  kind-hearted, 
but  what  does  lie  know  about  affairs?  He 
doesn't  even  know  how  to  flatter  women  !  " 

"  How  absurd  I  "  exclaimed  little  Mrs.  Phil- 
pot,  but  Hubbard  could  not  be  sure  for  the 
life  of  him  just  what  she  meant  the  expression 
to  characterize. 

"  And  you  like  Mr.  Howells?  "  she  inquired. 

"Like  him!  evcrj^body  likes  him,"  he  cor- 
dially said. 

"Well,  you  are  quite  different  from  Miss 
Crabb.  Slie  hates  Maurice  Thompson  for  putting 
tier  into  a  story." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Hubbard,  indifferently, 
"women  are  not  like  men.  Tliey  take  life 
more  seriously.  If  Thompson  had  had  more 
experience  he  would  not  have  tampered  with  a 
newspaper  woman.  He's  got  the  whole  crew 
down  on  him.  Miss  Stackpole  hates  him 
almost  as  fiercely  as  she  hates  Henry  James." 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  loi 

"  I  don't  blame  her,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Philpot, 
"  it's  mean  and  contemptible  for  men  to  carica- 
ture women." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  yawned  Hubbard,  "it 
all  goes  in  a  lifetime." 

At  this  opportune  moment  Miss  Crabb  and 
Miss  Stackpole  joined  them,  coming  arm  in 
arm,  Miss  Crabb  looking  all  the  more  sallow 
and  slender  in  comparison  with  the  plump, 
well-fed  appearance  of  her  companion. 

"  May  I  introduce  you  to  Miss  Crabb  of  the 
Ringville  8tar^  Mr.  Uubbard,"  Miss  Stackpole 
asked,  in  a  high  but  by  no  means  rich  voice,  as 
she  fastened  her  steady,  button -like  eyes  on 
Mrs.  Philpot. 

Hubbard  arose  lazily  and  went  through  the 
process  of  introduction  perfunctorily,  giving 
Miss  Crabb  a  sweeping  but  indifferent  glance. 

"There's  an  impromptu  pedestrian  excursion 
on  hand,"  said  Miss  Stackpole,  "  and  I  feel 
bound  to  po.  One  of  the  gentlemen  has  discov- 
ered a  hermit's  cabin  down  a  ravine  near  here, 
and  he  offers  to  personally  conduct  a  party  to 
it.     You  will  go,  Mr.  Hubbard  ?  " 

"Go!  I  should  remark  that  I  will.  You 
don't  get  a  scoop  of  that  item,  I  assure  you." 

Miss  Stackpole  was  a  plump  and  rather 
pretty  young  woman,  fairly  well  dressed  in 
drab  drapery.  She  stood  firmly  on  her  feet  and 
had  an  air  of  self-reliance  and  self-control  in 
strong  contrast  with  the  fussy,  nervous  manner 
of  Miss  Crabb. 

Mrs.  Philpot,  surveyed  the  two  young  women 


I02  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

Avitli  til  at  comprehensive,  critical  glance  which 
takes  in  everything  that  is  visible,  and  quickly 
enough  sbe  made  up  her  comparison  and  esti- 
mate of  them. 

She  decided  that  Miss  Crabb  had  no  style,  no 
savoir  faire^  no  repose  ;  but  then  Miss  Stackpole 
was  forward,  almost  impudent  in  appearance, 
and  her  greater  ease  of  manner  was  really  the 
ease  that  comes  of  a  long  training  in  intrusive- 
ness,  and  of  rubbino^  against  an  older  civiliza- 
tion.  She  felt  quite  distinctly  the  decided  dash 
of  vulgarity  in  the  three  newspaper  representa- 
tives before  her,  and  she  could  not  help  sus- 
pecting that  it  would  not  be  safe  to  judge  the 
press  reporters  by  these  examples. 

The  question  arose  in  her  mind  whether 
after  all  Howells  and  Henry  James  and  Maurice 
Thompson  had  acted  fairly  in  taking  these  as 
representative  newspaper  people. 

She  had  met  a  great  many  newspaper  people 
and  had  learned  to  like  them  as  a  class  ;  she 
had  many  good  and  helpful  friends  among 
them. 

Unconsciously  she  was  showing  to  all  present 
that  she  was  dissecting  the  three  reporters.  Her 
unfavorable  opinion  of  them  slowly  took  expres- 
sion in  her  tell-tale  face.  Not  that  she  wholly 
disliked  or  distrusted  them  ;  she  really  pitied 
them.  How  could  they  be  content  to  live  such 
a  life,  dependent  upon  what  they  could  make 
by  meddling,  so  to  speak  ? 

Then  too,  she  felt  a  vague  shame,  a  chagrin, 
SI  regret  that  real  people  must  be  put  into  works 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  103 

Of  fiction  with  ail  the  seamj  side  of  their  natures 
turned  out  to  the  world's  eye. 

"  "We're  in  for  it,"  exclaimed  Hubbard,  "  Mrs. 
Philpot  is  making  a  study  of  us  as  a  group. 
See  the  dreaming  look  in  her  eyes  !  " 

"  Oh,  no  1  she  never  studies  anybody  or 
anything,"  said  Miss  Crabb.  "  Poor  little  woman, 
real  life  is  a  constant  puzzle  to  her,  and  she 
makes  not  the  slightest  effort  to  understand  it." 

Hubbard  and  Miss  Stackpole  "glanced  cur- 
iously at  each  other  and  then  at  Miss  Crabb. 
Evidently  their  thought  was  a  common  one. 

XYI. 

The  pedestrian  excursion  spoken  of  by  Miss 
Stackpole  promised  to  be  an  enjoyable  affair  to 
those  of  the  Helicon  guests  who  could  venture 
upon  it.  A  writer  of  oddl}^  entertaining  and 
preposterously  impossible  short  stories,  John  B. 
Cattleton,  had  been  mousing  among  the  ravines 
of  Mt.  Boab,  and  had  stumbled  upon  what  he 
described  as  a  "  very  obscure  little  cabin,  jam- 
med under  a  cliff  in  an  angle  of  the  canon  and 
right  over  a  bright  stream  of  cold,  pure  spring- 
water.  It's  a  miserably  picturesque  and  for- 
lornly prepossessing  place,"  he  went  on  in  his 
droll  way,  "  where  all  sorts  of  engaging  ghosts 
and  entertaining  ogres  might  be  supposed  to 
congregate  at  midnight.  I  didn't  go  quite 
down  to  it,  but  I  Avas  near  enough  to  it  to 
make  out  its  main  features,  and  I  saw  the 
queerest  being  imaginable  poking  around  the 
premises.     A   veritable   hermit,   I  should  call 


/04  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

"him,  as  ola  as  the  rocks  themselves.  His  dress 
was  absurdly  old-fashioned,  a  caricature  of  the 
■uniform  of  our  soldier  sires  of  revolutionary 
renown.  A  long  spike-tailed  blue  coat  with 
notable  brass  buttons,  a  triangular  hat  somewhat 
bell-crowned  and  tow  or  cotton  trousers.  Shirt? 
Vest  ?  Yes,  if  I  remember  well  they  were  of 
copperas  homespun.  His  hair  and  beard  were 
white,  fine  and  thin,  hanging  in  tags  and  wisps  as 
fluffy  as  lint.  I  sat  upon  a  rock  in  the  shadow  of 
a  cedar  tree  and  watched  his  queer  manoeuvres  for 
a  good  while.  All  his  movements  were  furtive 
and  peculiar,  like  those  of  a  shy,  wild  beast." 

"It's  the  Prophet  of  the  Smoky  Mountain," 
said  Miss  Crabb  in  an  earnest  stage  whisper, 
"  He's  Craddock's  material,  we  can't  touch 
him." 

"  Touch  him  !  I'll  interview  him  on  dialect 
in  politics,"  said  Hubbard,  "and  get  his  views 
on  sex  in  genius." 

"  I  should  like  a  sketch  of  his  life.  There 
must  be  a  human  interest  to  serve  as  straw  for 
my  brick,"  remarked  Miss  Stackpole.  "The 
motive  that  induced  him  to  become  a  hermit, 
and  all  that." 

Miss  Crabb  dared  not  confess  that  she  desired 
a  sketch  of  the  old  man  for  the  newspaper  syn- 
dicate, so  she  merely  drummed  on  her  front 
teeth  with  her  pencil. 

Dufour  joined  the  pedestrian  party  with 
great  enthusiasm,  having  dressed  himself  for 
the  occasion  in  a  pair  of  tennis  trousers,  a  blue 
flannel  shirt,  a  loose  jacket  and  a  shooting  cap. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  105 

His  shoes  were  genuine  alpine  foot-gear  with 
short  spikes  in  their  heels  and  soles. 

"Lead  on  Cattleton,"  he  cried  jovially,  "  and 
let  our  motto  be,  '  On  to  the  hut  of  Friar 
Tuck ' ! " 

"Good,"  answered  Cattleton  in  like  spirit, 
"  and  you  shall  be  my  lieutenant,  come,  walk 
beside  me." 

"  Thank  you,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart," 
replied  Dufour,  "  but  I  cannot  accept.  I  have 
contracted  to  be  Miss  Moyne's  servant  instead." 

That  was  a  gay  procession  filing  away  from 
Hotel  Helicon  through  the  thin  forest  that 
fringed  one  shoulder  of  stately  Mt.  Boab.  Cat- 
tleton led  the  column,  flinging  back  from  time 
to  time  his  odd  sayings  and  preposterous  con- 
ceits. 

The  day  was  delightfully  cool  with  a  steady 
wind  running  over  the  mountain  and  eddying 
in  the  sheltered  coves  where  the  ferns  were 
thick  and  tall.  In  the  sky  were  a  few  pale 
clouds  slowly  vanishing,  whilst  some  broad- 
pinioned  buzzards  wheeled  round  and  round 
above  the  blue-green  abyss  of  the  valley.  There 
w^ere  sounds  of  a  vague,  dreamy  sort  abroad  in 
the  woods,  like  the  whisperings  and  laughter  of 
legions  of  invisible  beings.  Everybody  felt 
exhilarated  and  buoyant,  tramping  gaily  away 
to  the  htv-  of  the  hermit. 

At  a  certain  point  Cattleton  commanded  a 
halt,  and  pointing  out  the  entrance  to  the  ravine, 
said : 

"Now,  good  friends,  we  must   have   perfect 


io6  "A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

silence  during  the  descent,  or  our  visit  will  be 
all  in  vain.  Furthermore,  the  attraction  of 
gravitation  demands  that,  in  going  dow^n,  we 
must  preserve  our  uprightness,  else  our  pro- 
gress may  be  facilitated  to  an  alarming  degree, 
and  our  advent  at  the  hut  be  far  from  becomingly 
dignified." 

Like  a  snake,  flecked  with  touches  of  gay 
color,  the  procession  crawled  down  the  ravine, 
the  way  becoming  steeper  and  more  tortuous 
at  every  step.  Thicker  and  thicker  and  thicker 
grew  the  trees,  saving  where  the  rock  broke 
forth  from  the  soil,  and  closer  drew  the  zig-zags 
of  the  barely  possible  route.  Cattleton  silenced 
every  voice  and  rebuked  every  person  who 
showed  signs  of  weakening. 

"  It's  just  a  few  steps  farther,"  he  whispered 
back  from  his  advanced  position,  "  don't  make 
the  least  sound." 

But  the  ravine  proved,  upon  this  second 
descent  much  more  difficult  and  dangerous  than 
it  had  appeared  to  Cattleton  at  first,  and  it  was 
with  the  most  heroic  exertions  that  he  finally 
led  the  party  down  to  the  point  whence  he  had 
viewed  the  cabin.  By  this  time  the  column 
was  pressing  upon  him  and  he  could  not  stop. 
Down  he  went,  faster  and  faster,  barely  able  to 
keep  his  feet,  now  sliding,  now  clutching  a  tree 
or  rock,  with  the  breathless  and  excited  line  of 
followers  gathering  dangerous  momentum  be- 
hind him. 

It  was  too  late  now  to  command  silence  or  to 
control    the   company    in    any    way.     An   ava- 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  107 

lanclie  of  little  stones,  loosened  by  scrambling 
feet,  swept  past  liim  and  went  leaping  on  down 
below.  He  beard  Miss  Moyne  utter  a  little 
scream  of  teiTor  tliat  mingled  with  many  excla- 
mations from  botb  men  and  women,  and  then 
he  lost  his  feet  and  began  to  slide.  Down  he 
sped  and  down  sped  the  party  after  him,  till  in 
a  cataract  of  mightily  frightened,  but  unharmed 
men  and  women,  they  all  went  over  a  little 
precipice  and  landed  in  a  scattered  heap  on  a 
great  bed  of  oak  leaves  that  the  winds  had 
drifted  against  the  rock. 

A  few  moments  of  strange  silence  followed, 
then  everybody  sprang  up,  disheveled  and  red- 
faced,  to  look  around  and  see  what  was  the 
matter. 

They  found  themselves  close  to  the  long,  low 
cabin,  from  under  which  flowed  a  stream  of 
water.  A  little  column  of  smoke  was  wander- 
ing out  of  a  curious  clay  chimney.  Beside  the 
low  door- way  stood  a  long,  deep  trough  filled 
with  water  in  which  a  metal  pipe  was  coiled 
fantastically.  Two  earthen  jugs  with  cob  stop- 
pers sat  hard  by.  A  sourish  smell  assaulted 
their  sense  and  a  faint  spirituous  flavor  bur- 
dened the  air. 

Cattleton,  who  was  first  upon  his  feet,  shook 
himself  together  and  drolly  remarked: 

"  We  have  arrived  in  good  order,  let's  inter- 
view the " 

Just  then  rushed  forth  from  the  door  the  old 
man  of  the  place,  who  halted  outside  and 
suatched  from  its  rack  on  the  wall  a  lonf?  tin 


lo8  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

horn,  which  he  proceeded  to  blow  vigorously, 
the  echoes  prowling  through  the  woods  and 
over  the  foot-hills  and  scampering  far  away  up 
and  down  the  valley. 

Not  a  soul  present  ever  could  forget  that 
sketch,  the  old  man  with  his  shrunken  legs 
bent  and  wide  apart,  his  arms  akimbo  as  he 
leaned  far  back  and  held  up  that  wailing,  howl- 
ing, bellowing  horn,  and  his  long  coat-tail 
almost  touching  the  ground,  whilst  his  fantastic 
hat  quivered  in  unison  with  the  strain  he  was 
blowing.  How  his  shriveled  cheeks  puffed  out, 
and  how  his  eyes  appeared  to  be  starting  from 
their  bony  sockets! 

"  That  is  what  I  call  a  fitting  reception," 
said  Cattleton,  gazing  at  the  trumpeter. 

"See  here,"  exclaimed  Crane  with  evident 
excitement,  "  I  smell  whisky  !     This " 

"  Hyer  I  what  d'ye  mean  hyer,  you  all  a 
comin'downhyer?"  brokefortha  wrathful  voice, 
and  Wesley  Tolliver  rushed  with  melodramatic 
fierceness  upon  the  scene. 

*'  Oh  !  I — I — wa — want  to  g — go  home  1  "  cried 
little  Mrs.  Philpot,  clutching  Bartley  Hubbard's 
arm. 

.  "So  do  I,"  said  he  with  phlegmatic  clever- 
ness. "I  should  like  to  see  my  mother.  I'm 
feeling  a  little  lonely  and " 

"  What  upon  yearth  do  this  yer  mean,  any- 
how?" thundered  Tolliver.  "  Who  invited  you 
all  down  yer,  tell  me  thet,  will  ye?  " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Tolliver,  Mr.  Tolliver!"  exclaimed 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  109 

Miss  Crabb,  rushing  upon  him  excitedly,  "  I'm 
so  glad  you  are  here  ■  " 

"  Well,  I'll  ber  dorged  !  "  he  ejaculated,  "  you 
down  hyer  again !  Well,  I  never  seed  the  like 
afore  in  all  my  born  days." 

He  gazed  at  first  one  and  then  another  of  the 
party,  and  a  sudden  light  flashed  into  his 
face. 

"  Well  I'll  ber  dorged  ef  ther  whole  kepoodle 
of 'em  hain't  done  jest  gone  and  tumbled  off'n 
the  mounting  an'  jest  rolled  down  hyer!  " 

"  You're  a  very  accurate  reasoner,  my  friend," 
said  Cattleton,  trying  to  get  his  hat  into  shape, 
*'  I  think  we  touched  at  two  or  three  points  as 
we  came  down,  however." 

About  this  time  four  or  five  more  mountain- 
eers appeared  bearing  guns  and  looking  sav- 
age. 

"  Bandits,"  said  Miss  Stackpole  with  a  shud- 
der. 

"  Moonshiners,"  muttered  Crane. 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  Mr.  Hubbard,  do 
t — t — take  m — me  home  !  "  wailed  Mrs.  Philpot. 

"I  should  be  delighted,"  said  Hubbard,  his 
voice  concealing  the  uneasiness  he  felt.  "In- 
deed I  should." 

More  men  appeared  and  at  the  same  time  a 
roll  of  thunder  tumbled  across  the  darkening 
sky.     A  sudden  mountain  storm  had  arisen. 

The  pedestrians  found  themselves  surrounded 
by  a  line  of  grim  and  silent  men  who  appeared 
to  be  waiting  for  orders  from  Tolliver. 

A  few  large  drops  of  rain  come  slanting  down 


no  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

from  tlie  advancing  fringe  of  tlie  sable-clcad, 
and  again  the  tliuhder  bounded  across  the 
heavens. 

"  I  guess  3' on'd  better  invite  ns  in,"  suggested 
Cattleton,  turning  to  the  old  man,  who  stood 
leaning  on  his  tin  horn,  "  The  ladies  will  get 
wet." 

"  I  say,  Cattleton,"  called  out  Bartlej  Hub- 
bard, "if  a  fellow  only  had  a  little  supply  of 
Stockton's  negative  gravity  he  could  ameliorate 
his  condition,  don't  you  think?" 

*'  Yes,  I'd  like  to  fall  up  hill  just  now.  The 
excitement  would  be  refreshing." 

There  came  a  spiteful  dash  of  rain  and  a  flurry 
of  wind. 

"  You'ns  had  better  go  inter  the  still -house," 
said  Tolliver.  "  Hit  air  goin'  ter  rain  yearlin' 
calves.     Go  right  erlong  in,  ye  sha'n't  be  hurt." 

Another  gush  of  rain  enforced  the  invitation, 
and  they  all  scrambled  into  the  cabin  pell-mell, 
glad  of  the  relief  from  a  strain  that  had  become 
almost  unbearable  to  some  of  them,  but  they 
stared  at  each  other  when  they  found  the  door 
closed  and  securely  locked  on  the  outside. 

"  Prisoners !  "  cried  some  one  whose  voice  was 
drowned  by  a  deafening  crash  of  thunder  and  a 
mighty  flood  of  rain  that  threatened  to  crush  in 
the  rickety  roof  of  the  house. 

"  The  treacherous  villain  !  "  exclaimed  Dufour, 
speaking  of  Tolliver  and  holding  Miss  Moyne's 
hand.  The  poor  girl  was  so  frightened  that  it 
was  a  comfort  to  her  to  have  her  hand  held. 

"  How  grand,  how  noble  it  is  in  Mr.  Tolliver 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  lit 

and  his  friends,"  said  Miss  Crabb,  "  to  staod  out 
there  in  the  rain  and  let  ns  have  the  shelter!  I 
never  saw  a  more  virile  and  thoroughly  unselfish 
man  than  he  is.  He  is  one  of  Nature's  unshorn 
heroes,  a  man  of  the  ancient  god-like  race." 

Mrs.  Kancy  Jones  Black  gave  the  young 
woman  a  look  of  profound  contempt. 

Then  a  crash  of  thunder,  wind,  and  rain  scat- 
tered everybody's  thoughts. 

XYir. 

The  storm  was  wild  enough,  but  of  short 
duration,  and  it  came  to  its  end  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  begun.  As  the  black  cloud  departed 
from  the  sky,  the  darkness,  which  had  been 
almost  a  solid  inside  the  still-house,  was  pierced 
by  certain  lines  of  mild  lis-ht  coming:  throunh 
various  chinks  in  the  walls  and  roof.  Our 
friends  examined  one  another  curiously,  as  if  to 
be  sure  that  it  was  not  all  a  dream. 

Cattleton  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a 
demure-looking  young  man,  w4iom  he  at  once 
recognized  as  Harry  Punner,  a  writer  of  deli- 
cious verses  and  editor  of  a  rollicking  humorous 
journal  at  New  York. 

"Hello,  Hal!  you  here?"  he  crieck  "Well 
how  does  it  strike  your  funny  boue?  Ifc  insists 
upon  appearing  serious  to  me." 

"  I'm  smothering  for  a  whiff  of  fresh  air," 
said  Punner,  in  a  very  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"  Can't  we  raise  a  window  or  something?  " 

"  The  only  window  visible  to  the  naked  eye," 
said  Cattleton,  "  is  already  raised  higher  than  I 


r  12  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

can  reach,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  square  hole  in 
the  wall  about  seven  and  a-halffeet  above  the 
ground  and  very  near  the  roof. 

Crane  went  about  in  the  room  remarking  that 
the  aroma  floating  in  the  air  was  the  bouquet 
of  the  very  purest- and  richest  copper-distilled 
corn  whisky  and  that  if  he  coukl  find  it  he  was 
quite  sure  that  a  sip  of  it  would  prove  very 
refreshing  under  the  peculiar  circumstances  of 
the  case,  an  observation  which  called  forth  from 
Mrs,  Nancy  Jones  Black  a  withering  temper- 
ance reprimand. 

"  As  the  presiding  officer  of  the  WomarHs 
Prohibiiion  ProTmdgation  Society  I  cannot  let 
such  a  remark  pass  without  condemning  it.  It 
th.s  really  is  a  liquor  establishment  I  desire  to 
be  let  out  of  it  forthwith." 

*'So  do  I!"  exclaimed  little  Mrs.  Philpot 
with  great  vehemence.  "Open  the  door  Mr. 
Habbard,  please." 

Hubbard  went  to  the  door  and  finding  that 
It  was  constructed  to  open  outwardly,  gave  it  a 
shove  with  all  his  might.  There  was  a  short 
tussle  and  he  staggered  back. 

•'  Why  don't  you  push  it  open  ?  ''  fretfully 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Nancy  Jones  Black. 

*'  The  gentlemen  outside  object,  for  reasons 
not  stated,"  was  the  rather  stolidly  spoken 
answer. 

Cattleton  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  was 
going  about  through  the  company  soliciting 
handkerchiefs. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  113 

*'  Drop  tliem  in,  drop  them  in,"  he  urged,  "I 
need  all  of  them  that  I  can  get." 

He  offered  his  hat  as  a  contribution  box  as 
he  spoke,  and  nearly  everj-one  gave  a  handker- 
chief, without  in  the  least  suspecting  his  pur- 
pose. 

When  he  had  collected  a  round  dozen,  Cat- 
tleton  crammed  them  all  down  in  the  crown  of 
his  hat  which  he  then  put  on  his  head. 

"  Now  Hal,"  he  said,  addressing  Punner, 
"give  me  a  boost  and  I'll  make  an  observation 
through  that  window." 

The  rain  was  now  entirely  ended  and  the  wind 
had  fallen  still. 

With  Punner's  help  Cattleton  got  up  to  tlie 
window  and  poked  out  his  head. 

"  Git  back  ther' ! "  growled  a  vicious  voice 
and  at  the  same  time  the  dull  sound  of  a  heavy 
blow  was  followed  by  the  retreat  of  Cattleton 
from  the  window  to  the  floor  in  a  great  hurry. 

Upon  top  of  his  hat  was  a  deep  trench  made 
by  a  club. 

"The  handkerchiefs  did  their  duty  nobly," 
he  remarked.  "Let  everybody  come  forward 
and  identify  his  property." 

"  What  did  you  see  ?  "  asked  Punner. 

"  A  giant  with  an  oak  tree  in  his  hand  and 
murder  in  his  eye,"  said  Cattleton,  busily  select- 
ing and  returning  the  handkerchiefs.  "This 
eleemosynary  padding  was  all  that  saved  me. 
The  blow  was  aimed  at  my  divine  intellect." 

"  See  here,"  cried  Peck,  in  great  earnest, 
"  this  is  no  joking  matter.    We're  in  the  power 


I  f 4  A  Portnighi  of  Fatly, 

of  a  set  of  mountain  moonsTiiners,  and  may  be 
murdered  in  cold  blood.  "We'd  better  do  some- 
thing." 

Crane  bad  prowled  around  until  be  bad  found 
a  small  jug  of  fragrant  mountain  dew  wbiskj, 
which  be  was  proceeding  to  taste  in  true  Ken- 
tucky style,  when  a  gaunt  form  rose  in  a  corner 
of  the  room,  and  tottering  forward  seized  the  jug 
and  took  it  out  of  his  hand. 

*'No  ye  don't,  sonny,  no  ye  don't!  This  yer 
mounting  jew  air  not  ever'body's  licker  'at 
Avants  it.  Not  by  er  half  er  mile  at  the  littlest 
calc'lation  I " 

Miss  Crabb  made  a  note.  Crane  gazed  pathet- 
ically at  the  fantastic  old  man  before  him,  and 
brushed  his  handkerchief  across  his  lips,  as  if 
fi'om  habit,  as  he  managed  to  say: 

''I  meant  no  undue  liberty,  I  assure  you. 
That  whisky  is " 

"  Overpowerin',"  interrupted  the  old  man, 
taking  a  sip  from  the  vessel.  "Yes,  I  don'l 
blame  ye  fur  a  wantin'  of  it,  but  this  yer  hcker 
air  mine." 

"  Up  in  Kentucky,"  said  Crane,  "we  are  proud 
to  offer " 

"  Kaintucky !  did  ye  say  ole  Kaintuck?  Air 
ye  from  ther',  boy  ?  " 

The  octogenarian  leaned  forward  as  be  spoke 
and  gazed  at  Crane  with  steadfast,  rheumy 
eyes. 

Miss  Henrietta  Stackpole  en  me  forward  to 
hear  what  was  to  follow,  her  instinct  telling  her 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly,  1 15 

tliat  a  point  of  human  interest  was  about  to  be 
reached. 

"  Yes,"  said  Crane,  "  I  was  born  and  ireared 
on  Lulbegrud  creek." 

''  Lulbegrud ! " 

*'  Yes." 

"  How  fur  f  om  Wright's  mill?  " 

"  Close  by,  at  Kiddville,"  said  Crane. 

*'Ye  'member  Easton's  Springs  close  by  an' 
Pilot  Knob  away  off  in  the  distance?" 

"Very  well,  indeed,  and  Guofif's  pond. 

"  Boy,  what  mought  yer  name  be?  " 

*'  Crane." 

"Crane!" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  I'll  ber  dorg !  " 

The  old  man  stood  gazing  and  grinning  at 
Crane  for  some  moments,  and  then  added : 

"  What's  yer  pap's  name  ?  " 

"  EHphas  Crane." 

"  'Liphas  Crane  yore  pap !  " 

"Yes." 

"  Child,  I  air  yer  pap's  uncle." 

"What!" 

"  I  air  Peter  Job  Crane." 

"You!" 

"  Sartin  es  anything." 

"Are  you  my  father's  uncle  Pete^?" 

"  I  air  yer  pap's  uncle  Pete." 

"  How  strange  !  " 

Miss  Stack  pole  did  not  permit  a  word,  a  look, 
or  a  shade  of  this  interview  to  escape  her.  She 
now  turned  to  B.artley  Z..bbard  and  caid : 


II  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

"  We  Americans  are  the  victims  of  hetero- 
geneous consanguinity.  Such  an  incident  as 
this  could  not  happen  in  England.  It  will  be  a 
long  time  before  we  can  get  rid  of  our  ancestors." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Hubbard,  nonchalantly,  "  Yer 
pap's  uncle  certainly  is  a  large  factor  in  Amer- 
ican life." 

"  How  many  men  did  you  see  when  you  looked 
out  ?  "  Peck  inquired,  addressing  Cattleton. 

"  I  saw  only  one,  but  he  was  a  monster,"  was 
the  ready  reply.  "  It's  no  use  brooding  over  try- 
ing to  escape  by  force.  AYe're  utterly  helpless, 
and  that  jolt  on  my  head  has  rendered  me  unfit 
for  diplomatic  efforts." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  they  will  do  with 
us?" 

"They  won't  dare  let  us  go." 

"Why?" 

"  They'd  be  afraid  that  we  would  report  their 
illicit  distillery." 

"  Ah,  I  see." 

The  affair  began  to  take  on  a  very  serious 
and  gloomy  aspect,  and  the  room  was  growing 
oppressively  hot,  owing  to  the  presence  of  a 
a  small  but  energetic  furnace  that  glowed  under 
a  sighing  boiler.  Outside,  with  the  clearing  sky 
and  refreshed  air,  there  arose  a  clamor  of  bird- 
song  in  the  dripping  trees.  Under  tiie  floor  the 
spring-stream  gurgled  sweetly. 

"  Ye  'member  Abbott's  still  house  on  ole 
Lulbegrud  ? "  said  the  old  man,  pursuing  his 
reminisences,  after  he  had  permitted  his  grand- 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  117 

nephew  to  taste  tlie  "  mounting  jew,"  "an'  Dan 
Rankin's  ole  bob-tail  boss?  " 

"  Very  well,  indeed,"  responded  Crane,  "  and 
Billy  Pace's  blaekberiy  fields  wliere  I  picked 
berries  in  summer  and  cliased  rabbits  in  winter." 

"  Take  er  nother  drop  o'  the  j  jful  juice,  bo}^, 
fur  the  mem'ry  o'  ole  Kaintuck  !  " 

"  Oh  dear !  but  isn't  it  incomparably  awful?  " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Nancy  Jones  Black,  gazing  in 
horrified  fascination  upon  the  two  Kentuckians, 
as  they  bowed  to  each  other  and  drank  alter- 
nately from  the  little  jug. 

"  Characteristic  Southern  scene  not  used  by 
Craddock,"  murmured  Miss  Crabb,  making  a 
whole  page  of  a  single  note. 

"  Don't  this  yere  liquor  taste  o'  one  thing  an' 
smell  o'  another  an'  jes'  kinder  git  ter  the  low- 
est p'int  o'  yer  appetite  ?  "  continued  Crane's 
great  uncle  Peter. 

"  Delicious  beyond  compare,"  responded  the 
young  man,  drinking  again,  "  it  is  nectar  of  the 
gods." 

Mrs.  Nancy  Jones  Black  groaned,  but  could 
not  withdraw  her  eyes  from  the  scene. 

"Good  deal  like  ole  times  down  to  Abbott's 
still-house  on  Lulbegrud,  boy,"  the  old  man 
suggested,  "  ye  don't  forgit  erbout  Dan  Rankin's 
mule  a-kickin'  ole  man  Hornlxick's  hat  off?  " 

The  poet  laughed  retrospectively  and  mopped 
his  glowing  face  with  his  handkerchief.  The 
heat  from  the  furnace  and  the  stimulus  of  the 
excellent  beverage  were  causing  him  to  feel  the 
need  of  fresh  air. 


1 18  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

Indeed,  everybody  was  beginning  to  pant. 
Miss  Moyne  was  so  overcome  with  excitement 
and  with  tiie  heat  of  the  place,  that  she  was 
ready  to  faint,  when  the  door  was  flung  open  and 
Tolhver  appeared.  A  rush  of  sweet  cool  air, 
flooding  the  room,  revived  her,  just  as  she  was 
sinking  into  Dufour's  arms. 

XVIII. 

Authors  who  have  added  the  vice  of  elocu- 
tion to  the  weakness  of  dialect  verse-making,  are 
often  at  a  loss  for  a  sympathetic  audience. 
"Whilst  it  is  true  that  literary  people  are  apt  to 
bear  with  a  good  deal  of  patience  ihe  mutually 
offered  inflictions  incident  to  meeting  one 
anotlier,  they  draw  the  line  at  dialect  recita- 
tions ;  and,  as  a  rule,  stubbornly  refuse  to  be 
bored  with  a  fantastic  rendition  of  "  When 
Johnny  got  spanked  by  a  mule,"  or  "Liverj- 
stable  Bob,"  or  "  Samantha's  Courtin',"  or  "  Over 
the  Ridge  to  the  Pest-house,"  no  matter  how 
dear  a  friend  may  offer  the  scourge.  Circum- 
stances alter  cases,  however,  and  although 
neither  Caileton,  nor  Riley,  nor  yet  Burdette, 
nor  Bill  Nye  (those  really  irresistible  and  wholly 
delightful  humorists),  had  come  to  Hotel  Heli- 
con, there  was  a  certain  relief  for  those  of  the 
guests  who  had  not  joined  the  luckless  pedes- 
trians, in  hearing  Miss  Amelia  Lotus  Neboker 
recite  a  long  poem  written  in  New  Je.'sey 
patois. 

Miss  Nebeker  was  very  hard  of  hearing, 
almost  stone  deaf,  indeed,  which  affliction  lent 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  119 

a  patlietic  effect  even  to  lier  luimor.  She  was 
rather  stout,  decidedly  short,  and  had  a  way  of 
making  wry  faces  with  a  view  to  adding  com- 
icality to  certain  turns  of  her  New  Jersey 
phraseology,  and  yet  she  was  somewhat  of  a 
bore  at  times.  Possibly  she  Avished  to  read  too 
often  and  sometimes  upon  very  unsuitable  occa- 
sions. It  was  Mrs.  Bridges  who  once  said  that, 
if  the  minister  at  a  funeral  should  ask  some  one 
to  say  a  few  appropriate  words.  Miss  Nebeker, 
if  present,  would  immediately  clear  her  throat 
and  begin  reciting  "  A  Jerseyman's  Jewsharp." 
"  And  if  she  once  got  started  you'd  never  be 
able  to  stop  her,  for  she's  as  deaf  as  an  adder." 

It  was  daring  the  rainstorm,  while  those  of 
the  guests  who  had  not  gone  to  the  hermit's 
hut  with  Cattleton,  weie  in  the  cool  and  spa- 
cious parlor  of  the  hotel,  that  something  was 
said  about  Charles  Dickens  reading  from  his 
ow^n  works.  Straniiely  enough,  although  the 
remark  was  uttered  in  a  low  key  and  at  some 
distance  from  MiSS  Xebeker,  she  responded  at 
once  with  an  offer  to  give  them  a  new  render- 
ing of  The  Jerseyman^ s  Jeicsliarp.  Lucas,  the 
historian,  objected  vigorously,  but  she  insisted 
upon  interpreting  his  words  and  gestures  as  em- 
phatic np])lause  of  her  proprosition.  She  arose 
while  he  was  saying  : 

"Oh  now,  that's  too  much,  we're  tired  of  the 
jangling  of  tliat  old  harp  ;  give  us  a  rest  1" 

This  unexpected  and  surprising  slang  from  so 
grave  and  dignified  a  man  set  everybody  to 
laughing.      Miss   Nebeker   bowed    in    smiling 


I20  A  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

acknowledgement  of  what  appeared  to  her  to  be 
a  flattering  anticipation  of  her  humor,  and  tak- 
ing her  manuscript  from  some  hiding-place  in 
her  drapery,  made  a  grimace  and  began  to  read. 
Mrs.  Philpot's  cat,  in  the  absence  of  its  mistress, 
had  taken  up  with  the  elocutionist  and  now 
came  to  rub  and  purr  around  her  feet  while  she 
recited.  This  was  a  small  matter,  but  in  school 
or  church  or  lecture-hall,  small  matters  attract 
attention.  The  fact  that  the  cat  now  and  again 
mewed  plaintively  set  some  of  the  audience  to 
smiling  and  even  to  laughing. 

Such  apparent  approval  of  her  new  rendition 
thrilled  Miss  Nebeker  to  her  heart's  core.  Her 
voice  deepened,  her  intonations  caught  the  spirit 
of  her  mood,  and  she  read  wildly  well. 

Every  one  who  has  even  a  smattering  of  the 
patois  current  in  New  Jersey,  will  understand 
how  effective  it  might  be  made  in  the  larynx 
of  a  cunning  elocutionist ;  and  then  whoever  has 
had  the  delicious  experience  of  hearing  a  genu- 
ine Jersey  man  play  on  the  jewsharp  will  natur- 
ally jump  to  a  correct  conclusion  concerning 
the  pathos  of  the  subject  which  Miss  Nebeker 
had  in  hand.  She  felt  its  influence  and  threw 
all  her  power  into  it.  Heavy  as  she  was,  she 
arose  on  her  tip-toes  at  the  turning  point  of  the 
stor}^  and  gesticulated  vehemently. 

The  cat,  taken  by  surprise,  leaped  aside  a  pace 
or  two  and  glared  in  a  half-frightened  way, 
with  each  separate  hair  on  its  tail  set  stiffly. 
Of  course  there  was  more  laughter  which  the 
reader  took  as  applause. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  121 

"A  brace  of  cats!"  exclaimed  the  Mstorian. 
*'  A  brace  of  cats  !  " 

Nobody  knew  what  be  meant,  but  the  laugh- 
ing increased,  simply  for  the  reason  that  there 
was  nothing  to  laugh  at. 

Discovering  pretty  soon  that  Miss  Nebeker 
really  meant  no  harm  by  her  manoeuvres,  the  cat 
went  back  to  rub  and  purr  at  her  feet.  Then  Miss 
Nebeker  let  down  her  heel  on  the  cat's  tail,  at 
the  same  time  beginning  with  the  pathetic  part 
of  The  Jerseyman^s  Jeicsharp. 

The  unearthly  squall  that  poor  puss  gave  forth 
was  wholly  lost  on  the  excited  elocutionist,  but 
it  quite  upset  the  aiidience,  who,  not  wishing 
to  appear  rude,  used  their  handkerchiefs  freely. 

Miss  Nebeker  paused  to  give  full  effect  to  a 
touching  line. 

The  cat  wTithed  and  rolled  and  clawed  the  air 
and  wailed  like  a  lost  spirit  in  its  vain  endeavor 
to  free  its  tail;  but  Miss  Nebeker,  all  uncon- 
scious of  the  situation,  and  seeing  her  hearers 
convulsed  and  wiping  tears  from  their  faces, 
redoubled  her  elocutionary  artifices  and  poured 
incomparable  feeling  into  her  voice. 

Suddenly  the  tortured  and  writhing  animal 
uttered  a  scream  of  blood-curdling  agony  and 
lunged  at  Miss  Nebeker's  ankles  with  tooth  and 
claw. 

She  was  in  the  midst  of  the  passage  where 
the  dying  Jerseyman  lifts  himself  on  his  elbow 
and  calls  for  his  trusty  Jewsharp: 

"  Gi'  me  my  juice-harp,  Sarah  Ann "  she 

was   saying,  when  of  a  sudden  she  screamed 


122  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

louder  tlian  the  cat  and  bounded  into  the  air, 
sending  her  manuscript  in  fluttering  leaves  al) 
over  the  room. 

The  cat,  with  level  tail  and  fiery  eyes,  sailed 
through  the  door- way  into  the  hall,  and  went  as 
if  possessed  of  a  devil,  bounding  up  the  stairway 
to  Mrs.  Philpot's  room. 

Congratulations  were  in  order,  and  Lucas 
insisted  upon  bellowing  in  Miss  Nebeker's  ear 
his  appreciation  of  the  powerful  effect  produced 
by  the  last  scene  in  the  little  drama. 

"  If  our  friends  who  are  out  in  this  rain  are 
finding  anything  half  as  entertaining,"  he  thun- 
dered,  "  they  needn't  mind  the  drenching." 

"  But  I'm  bitten,  I'm  scratched,  I'm  hurt  ' 
she  exclaimed. 

Lucas  suddenly  realized  the  brutality  of  his 
attitude,  and  hastened  to  rectify  it  by  collecting 
the  leaves  of  her  manuscript  and  handing  them 
to  her. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  he  said  sincerely,  "I  hope 
you  are  not  hurt  much." 

"Just  like  a  cat,"  she  cried,  "always  under 
somebody's  feet  I    I  do  despise  them  I  " 

With  a  burning  face  and  trembling  hands 
she  swiftly  rearranged  the  manuscript  and 
assuming  the  proper  attitude  asked  the  audience 
to  be  seated  again. 

"I  am  bitten  and  scratched  quite  severely," 
she  said,  "  and  am  suffering  great  pain,  but  if 
you  will  resume  your  places  I  will  begin  over 
again," 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  123 

"  Call  that  cat  back,  then,  quick  !  "  exclaimed 
Lucas,  "  it's  the  star  performer  in  the  plaj." 

She  proceeded  fortliwith,  setting  out  on  a  ne^ 
journey  through  the  tortuous  ways  of  the  poem, 
and  held  up  very  well  to  the  end.  What  she 
called  New  Jersey  patois  was  a  trifle  flat  when 
put  into  verse  and  she  lacked  the  polished  buf- 
foonery of  a  successful  dialect  reader,  wherefore 
she  failed  to  get  along  very  successfully  with 
her  audience  in  the  absence  of  the  cat ;  still  the 
reading  served  to  kill  a  good  deal  of  time,  by  a 
mangling  process. 

The  storm  was  over  long^  ago  when  she  had 
finished,  and  the  sun  was  flooding  the  valley 
with  golden  splendor.  Along  the  far  away 
mountain  ridges  some  slanting  wisps  of  whitish 
mist  sailed  slowly,  like  aerial  yachts  riding  dark 
blue  billows.  The  foliage  of  the  trees,  lately 
dusky  and  drooping,  twinkled  vividly  with  a 
green  that  was  almost  dazzling,  and  the  air  was 
deliciously  fresh  and  fragTant. 

Everybody  went  out  on  the  veranda  for  a 
turn  and  a  deep  breath. 

The  mail  had  arrived  and  by  a  mistake  a 
bundle  of  letters  bearing  the  card  of  George 
Dunkirk  &  Co.,  and  addressed  to  "  George  Dun- 
kirk, Esq.,  Hotel  Helicon,  room  24,"  was  handed 
to  Lucas. 

The  historian  gazed  at  the  superscription, 
adjusted  his  glasses  and  gazed  again,  and  slowly 
the  truth  crept  into  his  mind.  There  were  ten 
or  fifteen  of  the  letters.  Evidently  some  o^ 
them,  as  Lucas's  experience  suggested,  had  alien 


124  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

letters  inclosed  within  tlieir  envelopes,  and  .^hus 
forwarded  by  the  mailing  clerk  of  the  firm  had  at 
last  come  to  the  senior  partner  at  room  24. 

"  Gaspard  Dufour,  indeed  !  "  Lucas  exclaimed 
inwardly„  "  George  Dunkirk,  rather.  This  is 
a  pretty  kettle  of  fish !  " 

He  sent  the  letters  up  to  room  24,  to  await 
the  return  of  their  proper  recipient,  and  fell  to 
reflecting  upon  the  many,  very  many  and  very 
insulting  things  that  he  and  nearly  all  the  rest 
of  the  hotel  guests  as  well  had  said  in  Dufour's 
hearing  about  publishers  in  general  and  about 
George  Dunkirk  &  Co.,  in  particular.  His  face 
burned  with  the  heat  of  the  retrospect,  as  he 
recalled  such  phrases  as  "  sleek  thief,"  "  manip- 
ulator of  copy-right  statements,"  "Cadmean 
wolf"  "ghoul  of  literary  grave-yards,"  and  a 
hundred  others,  applied  with  utter  unrestraint 
and  bandied  around,  while  George  Dunkirk  was 
sitting  by  listening  to  it  all ! 

He  called  Ferris  to  him  and  imparted  his  dis- 
covery in  a  stage  whisper. 

"  The  dickens ! "  was  all  that  gentleman 
could  say,  as  the  full  text  of  his  address  of  the 
other  evening  rushed  upon  him. 

"  It  is  awkward,  devilish  awkward,"  remarked 
Lucas,  wiping  his  glasses  and  nervously  read- 
justing them. 

A  few  minutes  later  two  men  rode  up  to  the 
hotel.  One  of  them  was  a  very  quiet-looking 
fellow  who  dryly  stated  that  he  was  the  high 
sheriff  of  Mt.  Boab  county. 


A  Fortnight  of  FoUy.  125 


XIX. 


Meantime  down  the  ravine  in  tlie  obscure 
little  still-house  our  pedestrians  were  held  in 
durance  vile  bj  Tolliver  and  his  obedient 
moon-shiners. 

It  was  a  puzzling  situation  to  all  concerned. 
Far  from  wishing  or  intending  to  harm  his 
prisoners,  Tolliver  still  could  not  see  his  way 
clear  to  setting  them  at  liberty.  On  the  other 
hand  he  was  clever  enough  to  perceive  that  to 
hold  them  very  long  would  be  sure  to  lead  to 
disaster,  for  their  friends  would  institute  a 
search  and  at  the  same  time  telegraph  an 
account  of  their  disappearance  all  over  the 
country, 

''  'Pears  ter  me  like  I've  ketched  bigger  game 
'an  my  trap  '11  hold,"  he  thought,  as  he  stood 
in  the  door-way  surveying  his  victims. 

"  What  ye  all  a  doin'  a  monkeyin'  round' 
these  yer  premerses,  anyhow?"  he  demanded. 
"  Wy  c'udn't  ye  jest  wait  '11  I  sent  for  ye  ter 
kem  yer?  " 

''  It's  a  sort  of  surprise  party,  my  dear  sir," 
said  Cattleton.     "  Don't  you  see?  " 

''S'prise  set  o'  meddlin'  Yankees  a  foolin' 
roun'  wher'  they  air  not  got  no  business  at," 
responded  Tolliver,  "  that's  w'at  I  calls  it." 

'•  Where's  your  pantry  ?  "  inquired  Punner, 
"I'm  as  hungry  as  a  wolf." 

"  Hongry,  air  ye?  What'd  ye  'spect  ter  c»-^' 
ter  eat  at  er  still-house,  anyhow?     Hain't  yd 


126  A  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

got  no  sense  er  tall?  Air  ye  er  plum  blasted 
eejit?" 

Tolliver  made  these  inquiries  in  a  voice  and 
manner  suggestive  of  suppressed  but  utter  wrath. 

"  Oh  he's  always  hungry,  he  would  starve  in 
a  feed-store,"  exclaimed  Cattleton.  "  Don't  pay 
the  least  attention  to  him,  Mr.  Tolliver.  He's  in- 
curably hungry." 

''  W'y  ef  the  man's  really  hongry "  Tolliver 

began  to  say  in  a  sympathetic  tone. 

"Here,"  interrupted  Hubbard  gruffly,  "let 
us  out  of  this  immediately,  can't  you?  The 
ladies  can't  bear  this  foul  air  much  longer,  it's 
beastly." 

"  Mebbe  hit  air  you  'at  air  a  running  this  yer 
chebang,"  said  Tolliver  with  a  scowl.  "  I'll  jes' 
let  ye  out  w'en  I  git  ready  an'  not  a  minute 
sooner,  nother.     So  ye've  hearn  my  tin  horn." 

Miss  Stackpole  and  Miss  Crabb  made  notes  in 
amazing  haste. 

Hubbard  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders  and  bit 
his  lip.     He  was  baffled. 

"  Do  you  think  they'll  kill  us  ?"  murmured  Miss 
Moyne  in  Dufour's  ear. 

Dufour  could  not  answer. 

Crane  and  his  "  pap's  uncle  Pete  "  were  still 
hobnobbing  over  the  jug. 

"  Yer's  a  lookin'  at  ye,  boy,  an*  a  hopin'  agin 
hope  'at  ye  may  turn  out  ter  be  es  likely  a  man 
es  yer  pap,"  the  old  man  was  saying,  preliminary 
to  another  draught. 

Crane  was  bowing  with  extreme  politeness  in 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  I27 

acknowledgement  of  the  sentiment,  and  was 
saying : 

"  I  am  told  that  I  look  like  my  father " 

'  Yes,  ye  do  look  a  leetle  like  im,"  inter- 
rupted the  old  man  with  a  leer  over  the  jug, 
"  but  I'me  say  at  it  air  dern  leetle,  boy,  dem 
leetle!" 

Punner  overhearing  this  reply,  laughed  uproar- 
iously. Crane  appeared  oblivious  to  the  whole 
force  of  the  joke,  however.  He  was  simply 
waiting  for  his  turn  at  the  jug. 

"  As  I  wer'  a  sayin',''  resumed  the  old  man, 
"yer's  er  hopin'   agin'   hope,  an'   a  lookin'    at 

ye — " 

"How  utterly  brutal  and  disgusting!"  cried 
Mrs.  Nancy  Jones  Black.  "  I  must  leave  here,  I 
cannot  bear  it  longer !  This  is  nothing  but  a 
low,  vile  dram-shop  !     Let  me  pass  !  " 

She  attempted  to  go  through  the  doorway, 
but  Tol liver  interfered. 

"Stay  wher'  ye  air,"  he  said,  in  a  respectful 
but  very  stern  tone.  "Ye  cau't  git  out  o'  yer 
jist  yit." 

"Dear  me!  Dear  me!"  wailed  Mrs.  Black, 
"what  an  outrage,  what  an  insult!  Are  you 
men?"  she  cried,  turning  upon  the  gentlemen 
near  her,  "  and  will  you  brook  this  ?  " 

"Give  me  your  handkerchiefs  again,"  said 
Cattleton,  "and  I  will  once  more  poke  out  my 
head ;    'tis  all  that  I  can  do  !  " 

"Shoot  the  fust  head  'at  comes  out'n  thet 
ther  winder,  Dave  I  "  ordered  Tolliver,  speaking 
to  some  one  outside. 


128  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

"  I  don't  care  for  any  handkerchiefs,  thank 
you,"  said  Cattleton,  "  I've  changed  my  mind.'* 

Miss  Moyne  was  holding  Dufour's  arm  with  a 
nervous  clutch,  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and 
she  was  trembling  violently.  He  strove  to  quiet 
her  by  telling  her  that  there  was  no  danger, 
that  he  would  shield  her,  die  for  her  and  all 
that ;  but  Tolliver  looked  so  grim  and  the  situa- 
tion was  so  strange  and  threatening  that  she 
could  not  control  herself. 

"  Goodness  !  but  isn't  this  rich  material,"  Miss 
Crabb  soliloquized,  writing  in  her  little  red 
book  with  might  and  main.  "  Bret  Harte  never 
discovered  anything  better." 

"  Miss  Henrietta  Stackpole  was  too  busy 
absorbing  the  human  interest  of  the  interview 
between  the  two  Cranes,  to  be  more  than  indi- 
rectly aware  of  anything  else  that  was  going  on 
around  her. 

"  Ye  needn't  be  erfeard  as  ter  bein'  hurt,  boy," 
said  the  old  man,  "  not  es  long  es  yer  pap's 
uncle  Pete  air  eroun'  yer.  Hit  ain't  often  'at  I 
meets  up  wi'  kinfolks  downyer,  an'  w'en  I  does 
meet  up  Avi'  'em  I  treats  'em  es  er  Southern 
gen'l'man  orter  treat  his  kinfolks." 

"Precisely  so,"  said  Crane,  taking  another 
sip,  "  hospitality  is  a  crowning  Southern  virtue. 
When  I  go  up  to  Louisville  Henry  AYatterson 
and  I  always  have  a  good  time." 

"Spect  ye  do,  boy,  spect  ye  do.  Louisville 
use  ter  be  a  roarin'  good  place  ter  be  at." 

Tolliver,  whose  wits  had  been  hard  at  work, 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  129 

now  proposed  what  lie  called  "  terms  o'  pay-roll, 
like  what  they  lied  in  the  war." 

"Ef  ye'll  all  take  a  oath  an'  swa'  at  ye'll 
never  tell  nothin'  erbout  nothin,"  said  he,  "w'y 
I'll  jest  let  ye  off  this  yer  time." 

"That  is  fair  enough,"  said  Dufour,  "we  are 
not  in  the  detective  service." 

"  Then,"  observed  Tolliver,  *'  ef  I  ken  git  the 
Mention  of  this  yer  meetin',  I  move  'at  it  air 
yerby  considered  swore  'at  nothin'  air  ter  be 
said  erbout  nothin'  at  no  time  an'  never.  Do  ye 
all  swa'?" 

"  Yea  1 "  rang  out  a  chorus  of  voices. 

"Hit  air  cyarried,"  said  Tolliver,  "an'  the 
meetin'  air  dismissed,  sigh  er  die.  Ye  kin  all 
go  on  erbont  yer  business." 

The  pedestrians  filed  out  into  the  open  air 
feeling  greatly  relieved.  Crane  lingered  to  have 
a  few  more  passages  with  his  sociable  and  hos- 
pitable grf\nd-uncle.  Indeed  he  remained  until 
the  rest  of  the  party  had  passed  out  of  sight  np 
the  ravine  and  he  did  not  reach  the  hotel  until 
far  ill  the  night,  when  he  sang  some  songs  under 
Miss  Moyne's  window. 

Taken  altogether,  the  pedestrians  felt  that 
they  had  been  quite  successful  in  their  excur- 
sion. 

Dufour  was  happiness  itself.  On  the  way 
back  he  had  chosen  for  himself  and  Miss  Moyne 
a  path  which  separated  them  from  the  others, 
giving  him  an  opportunity  to  say  a  gi-eat  deal 
to  her. 

Now   it  is  a   part  of  our  common   stock  of 
9 


130  A  Fortnight  of  Folly. 

understanding  that  when  a  man  has  an  excel- 
lent and  uninterrupted  opportunity  to  say  a 
great  deal  to  a  beautiful  young  woman,  he  usu- 
ally does  not  find  himself  able  to  say  much; 
still  he  rarely  fails  to  make  himself  under- 
stood. 

They  both  looked  so  self-consciously  happy 
(when  they  arrived  a  little  later  than  the  rest 
at  Hotel  Helicon)  that  suspicion  would  have 
been  aroused  but  for  two  startling  and  all-ab- 
sorbing disclosures  which  drove  away  every 
other  thought. 

One  was  the  disclosure  of  the  fact  that  Du- 
four  was  not  Dufour,  but  George  Dunkirk,  and 
the  other  was  the  disclosure  of  the  fact  that  the 
bigh  sheriff  of  Mt.  Boab  County  was  in  Hotel 
Hehcon  on  important  official  business. 

Little  Mrs.  Philpot  was  the  first  to  discover 
that  the  great  publisher  really  had  not  practiced 
any  deception  as  to  his  name.  Indeed  her 
album  showed  that  the  signature  therein  was, 
after  all,  George  Dunkirk  and  not  Gaspard 
Dufour.  The  autograph  was  not  very  plain,  it 
is  true,  but  it  was  decipherable  and  the  mistake 
was  due  to  her  own  bad  reading. 

If  the  sheriff  had  been  out  of  the  question  the 
humiliation  felt  by  the  authors,  for  whom  Dun- 
kirk was  publisher  and  who  had  talked  so  out- 
rageously about  him,  would  have  crushed  them 
into  the  dust;  but  the  sheriff'  was  there  in  his 
most  terrible  form,  and  he  forced  liimself  upon 
their  consideration  with  his  quiet  but  effective 
methods  of  legal  procedure. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  131 

XX. 

"Gaslucky  "has  been  caiiglit  in  a  wheat  cor- 
ner at  Chicago,"  Lucas  explained,  "and  has 
been  squeezed  to  death." 

"Dead!"  cried  Punner,  "it's  a  great  loss. 
We'll  have  to  hold  a  meeting  and  pass 
res " 

"We'll  have  to  get  out  of  this  place  in  short 
order,"  said  Lucas,  "the  sheriff  has  levied  an 
attachment  on  the  hotel  and  all  it  contains." 

"What  I" 

"How's  that?" 

"Do  you  mean  that  the  house  is  to  be  shut 
up  and  we  turned  out  ?  " 

"Just  that,"  said  Lucas.  "The  sheriff  has 
invoiced  every  thing,  even  the  provisions  on 
hand.  He  says  that  we  can't  eat  another  bite 
here." 

"And  I'm  starving  even  now!"  exclaimed 
Punner.  "  I  could  eat  most  anything.  Let's 
walk  round  to  Delmonico's,  Cattleton." 

"But  really,  what  can  we  do?"  demanded 
Ferris,  dolefully  enough, 

"  Go  home,  of  course,"  said  Cattleton. 

Perris  looked  blank  and  stood  with  his  hands 
thrust  in  his  pockets. 

"I  can't  go  home,"  he  presently  remarked. 

"Why?" 

"I  haven't  money  enough  to  pay  my  way." 

"  By  George  I  neither  have  II"  exclaimed 
Cattleton  with  a  start. 


132  A  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

"  That  is  precisely  my  fix,"  said  Lucas 
gravely. 

"  You  echo  my  predicament,"  said  Peck. 

"My  salary  is  suspended  during  my  absence," 
said  Punner,  with  his  eyes  bent  on  the  floor. 

Little  Mrs.  Philpot  was  speechless  for  a  time 
as  the  force  of  the  situation  broke  upon  her. 

"  Squeezed  in  a  wheat  corner  ? "  inquired 
Miss  Stackpole,  "what  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  I  mean  that  Gaslucky  got  sheared  in  the 
big  deal  the  other  day  at  Chicago,"  Lucas 
explained. 

"Got  sheared?" 

"Yes,  the  bulls  sat  down  on  him." 

*'  Oh,  you  mean  a  speculation — a — " 

"  Yes,  Gaslucky  was  in  for  all  he  was  worth, 
and  they  run  it  down  on  him  and  flattened  him. 
A  gas-man's  no  business  in  wheat,  especially  in 
Chicago;  they  spread  him  out,  just  as  the 
sheriff's  proceedings  have  flattened  all  our 
hopes  for  the  present." 

"  It's  just  outrageous  !  "  cried  little  Mrs.  Phil- 
pot,  finding  her  voice.  "  He  should  have  noti- 
fied us,  so  that — " 

"  They  didn't  notiiy  him,  I  guess,"  said  Cat- 
tleton. 

"  No,  he  found  it  out  afterwards,"  remarked 
Lucas,  glancing  gloomily  toward  where  Dun- 
kirk and  Miss  Moyne  stood,  apparently  in  light 
and  pleasant  conversation. 

Viewed  in  any  light  the  predicament  was  a 
peculiar  and  distressing  one  to  ihe  guests  of 
Hotel  Helicon.     The  sheriff,  a  rather  ignorant;, 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly.  135 

but  very  stubborn  and  determined  man,  lield 
executions  and  writs  of  attachment  sued  out  by 
Gaslucky  creditors,  which  he  had  proceeded  to 
levy  on  the  hotel  and  on  all  the  personalty 
visible  in  it  belonging  to  the  proprietor. 

"  'Course,"  said  he,  "  hit'll  be  poortj  hard  on 
you'ns,  but  I  can't  help  it,  Tve  got  ter  do  my 
juty,  let  it  hurt  whoever  it  will.  Not  er  thing 
kin  ye  tech  at's  in  this  yer  tavern,  'ceptin' 
what's  your'n,  that  air's  jest  how  it  air.  So 
now  mind  w'at  yer  a  doin'." 

The  servants  were  idle,  the  dining-room  closed, 
the  kitchen  and  pantries  locked  up.  Never  was 
there  a  more  doleful  set  of  people.  Mrs.  Nancy 
Jones  Black  thought  of  playing  a  piece  of  sacred 
music,  but  she  found  the  grand  piano  locked? 
with  its  key  deep  in  the  sheriff's  pocket. 

The  situation  was  made  doubly  d'sagreeable 
when  at  last  the  of&cer  informed  the  guests  that 
they  would  have  to  vacate  their  rooms  forth- 
with, as  he  should  proceed  at  once  to  clo  e  up 
the  building. 

*'  Heavens,  man,  are  you  going  to  turn  us  out 
into  the  woods?"  demanded  Peck. 

"Woods  er  no  woods  "  he  replied,  "ye'll  hev 
ter  git  out'n  yer,  right  off." 

"But  the  ladies,  Mr.  Sheriff,"  suggested  Pun- 
ner,  "no  Southern  gentleman  can  turn  a  lady 
out  of  doors." 

The  officer  actually  colored  w!th  the  force  of 
the  insinuation.  He  stood  silent  for  some  time 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor.  Presently  he 
looked  up  and  said- 


134  -^  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

"The  weeming  kin  stay  till  mornin'." 

"  Well  thej  must  have  something  to  eat," 
said  Planner.     "  They  can't  starve." 

"Thet's  so,"  the  sheriff  admitted,  ''they  kin 
hev  a  bite  er  so." 

"And  we " 

"  You  men  folks  cayn't  hev  a  dorg  gone  mouth- 
ful, so  shet  up  I" 

"  Well,"  observed  Cattleton,  dryly,  "it  appears 
the  odds  is  the  difference  between  falling  into 
the  hands  of  moonshiners  and  coming  under  the 
influence  of  a  lawful  sheriff." 

"I  know  a  little  law,"  interposed  Bartley 
Hubbard  with  a  sullen  emphasis,  "and  T  know 
that  this  sheriff  has  no  right  to  tumble  us  out 
of  doors,  and  for  my  part  — — " 

"Fur  yer  part,"  said  the  sheriff  coolly,  "fur 
yer  part,  Mister,  ef  ye  fool  erlong  o'  me  I'll 
crack  yer  gourd  fur  ye." 

"You'll  do  what? '» 

"  I'll  stave  in  yer  piggin." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  W'y,  blame  yer  ignorant  hide,  wha'  wer'  ye 
homed  and  fotch  up?  I'll  jest  knock  the  ever- 
lastin'  head  off'n  ye,  theth  'zac'ly  w'at  I  says. 
Mebbe  ye  don't  understan'  tlietV 

"Yes,"  said  Hubbard,  visibly  shrinking  into 
himself,  "I  begin  to  suspect  your  meaning." 

Miss  Crabb  was  taking  notes  with  enthusias- 
tic rapidity. 

Dunkirk  called  the  sheriff  to  him  and  a  long 
conference  was  held  between  them,  the  result 
of  which  was  presently  announced. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly,  135 

"  I  "heve  thort  it  over,"  said  the  quiet  officer 
of  the  law,  "an'  es  hit  appear  thet  w'at  grub  air 
on  han'  an'  done  cooked  might  spile  afore  it 
c'u'd  be  sold,  therefore  I  proclamate  an'  say  at 
you'ns  kin  stay  yer  tell  termorrer  an'  eat  w'at's 
cooked,  but  tech  nothin'  else." 

Cattleton  and  Punner  applauded  loudly.  To 
everybody  the  announcement  was  a  reprieve  of 
no  small  moment,  and  a  sigh  of  relief  rustled 
through  the  groups  of  troubled  guests.  Those 
who  had  been  down  the  ravine  were  very  tired 
and  hungry ;  the  thought  of  a  cold  luncheon  to 
them  was  the  vision  of  a  feast. 

Dunkirk  had  a  basket  of  wine  brought  down 
from  his  room  and  he  made  the  sheriff  sit 
beside  him  at  the  table. 

"  We  may  as  well  make  the  most  of  our  last 
evening  together,"  he  said,  glancing  jovially 
around. 

"  We  shall  have  to  walk  down  the  mountain 
in  the  morning,  I  suppose,"  remarked  Bartley 
Hubbard. 

"  That's  jest  w'at's  the  matter,"  observed  the 
sheriff. 

"But  the  ladies,  my  dear  sir,  the  ladies " 

began  Punner. 

"The  weeming,  they'll  hev  kinveyances, 
young  man,  so  ye  kin  jest  shet  up  ef  ye  please,-" 
the  officer  interrupted,  with  a  good-natured  wink 
and  a  knowing  wag  of  his  head. 

A  disinterested  observer  would  have  noted 
readily  enough  that  the  feast  was  far  from  a 
banquet.       There     was     Ferris,    for    instance, 


136  A  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

munching  a  biscuit  and  sipping  his  wine  and 
pretending  to  enjoy  Punner's  sallies  and  Cattle- 
ton's  drolleries,  while  down  in  his  heart  lay  the 
leaden  thought,  the  hideous  knowledge  of  an 
empty  pocket.  Indeed  the  reflection  was  a 
common  one,  weighting  down  almost  every 
breast  at  the  board. 

One  little  incident  did  make  even  Ferris  for- 
get himself  for  a  moment  or  two ,  it  was  when 
deaf  Miss  Nebeker  misinterpreted  some  remark 
made  by  Hubbard  and  arose  with  a  view  to 
reciting  The  Jerseyman^s  Jewsharp^  with  a  new 
variation,  "Oh,  Jerseyman  Joe  had  a  Jewsharp 
of  gold,"  she  began,  in  her  most  melodious 
drawl.  She  could  not  hear  the  protesting 
voices  of  her  friends  and  she  misinterpreted  the 
stare  of  the  sheriff. 

"For  the  good  heaven's  sake,  Hubbard," 
cried  Lucas,  "  do  use  your  influence ;  quick, 
please,  or  I  shall  collapse." 

Bartley  Hubbard  took  hold  of  her  dress  and 
gently  pulled  her  down  into  her  chair. 

"  TIjc  sheriff  objects  I  "  he  yelled  in  her  ear. 

"After  dinner?"  she  resignedly  inquired, 
"  well,  then  after  dinner,  in  the  parlor." 

When  the  feast  had  come  to  the  crumbs, 
Dunkirk  arose  and  said  : 

"  We  all  have  had  a  good  time  at  the  Hotel 
Helicon,  but  our  sojourn  upon  the  heights  of 
Mt.  Boab  has  been  cut  short  by  a  certain  chain 
of  mishaps  over  which  we  have  had  no  control, 
and  to-morrow  we  go  away,  doubtless  forever. 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly,  1 37 

I  feel  like  saying  that  I  harbor  no  unpleasant 
recollections  of  the  days  we  have  spent  together." 

Cattelton  sprung  to  his  feet  to  move  a  vote 
of  thanks  "to  the  public- spirited  and  benevolent 
man  who  built  this  magnilicent  hotel  and  threw 
open  its  doors  to  us." 

It  was  carried. 

"Now  then,"  said  Lucas,  adjusting  his  glasses 
and  speaking  in  his  gravest  chest-tones,  "I  move 
that  it  be  taken  as  the  sense  of  this  assembly, 
that  it  is  our  duty  to  draw  upon  our  publisher 
for  money  enough  to  take  us  home." 

The  response  was  overwhelming. 

Dunkirk  felt  the  true  state  of  affairs.  He 
arose,  his  broad  lace  wreathed  with  genial 
smiles,  and  said  : 

"  To  the  certain  knowledge  of  your  unhappy 
publisher  your  accounts  are  already  overdrawn, 
but  in  view  of  the  rich  material  you  have  been 
gathering  of  late,  your  publisher  will  honor 
you  draughts  to  the  limit  of  your  expenses 
home." 

Never  did  happier  people  go  to  bed.  The 
last  sleep  in  Hotel  Helicon  proved  to  be  the 
sweetest. 

Far  in  the  night,  it  is  true,  some  one  sang 
loudly  but  plaintively  under  Miss  Moyne's 
window  until  the  sheriff  awoke  and  sallied  forth 
to  end  the  serenade  with  some  remarks  about 
"  cracking  that  eejit's  gourd ; "  but  there  was  no 
disturbance,  the  sounds  blending  sweetly  with 
the  dreams  of  the  slumberers.  They  all  knew 
that  it  was  Crane,  poor  fellow,  who  had  finally 


13S  A  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

torn  himself  away  from  his  father's  fascinating 
uncle. 

XXI. 

The  retreat  from  Hotel  Ilelicon  was  pictur- 
esque in  the  extreme.  There  had  been  much 
difficulty  in  finding  vehicles  to  take  the  retiring 
guests  down  the  mountain  to  the  railway  station, 
but  Tolliver  had  come  to  the  rescue  with  a 
mule,  a  horse,  a  cart,  and  an  ox.  These,  when 
added  to  the  rather  incongruous  collection  of 
wagons  and  carts  from  every  other  available 
source,  barely  sufficed.  Tolliver  led  the  mule 
with  Ferris  on  its  back,  while  Miss  Crabb  and 
Miss  Stackpole  occupied  the  ox-cart,  the  former 
acting  as  driver. 

"  Good-bye  and  good  luck  to  yel  "  the  sheriff 
called  after  them.  "  Mighty  sorry  ter  discom- 
mode ye,  but  juty  air  juty,  an'  a  officer  air  no 
respecter  of  persons." 

Mrs.  Nancy  Jones  Black  sat  beside  Crane  in  a 
rickety  wagon,  and  between  jolts  gave  him 
many  a  word  of  wisdom  on  the  subject  of  strong 
drink,  which  the  handsome  Bourbon  pofet  stowed 
away  for  future  consideration. 

Dunkirk  and  Miss  Moyne  rode  upon  the 
"hounds"  of  a  naked  wood-wain,  as  happy  as 
two  blue-birds  in  April,  while  Bartley  Hubbard, 
with  little  Mrs.  Philpot  and  her  child  and  some 
other  ladies,  was  in  an  old  weather-beaten 
barouche,  a  sad  relic  of  the  ante-helium  times. 
For  the  rest  there  were  vehicles  of  every  sort 
save  the  comfortable  sort,  and  all  went  slowly 


A  Fortnight  of  Folly,  139 

winding  and  zig-zagging  down  Mt.  Boab  toward 
the  valley  and  the  river.  Why  pursue  them  ? 
Once  they  all  looked  up  from  far  down  the  slope 
and  saw  Hotel  Helicon  shining  like  a  castle  of 
gold  in  the  flood  of  summer  sunlight.  Its 
verandas  were  empty,  its  windows  closed,  but 
the  flag  on  its  wooden  tower  still  floated  bravely 
in  the  breeze,  its  folds  appearing  to  touch  the 
soft  gray -blue  sky. 


A  year  later  Crane  and  Peck  met  at  Saratoga 
and  talked  over  old  ^in^es  At  length  coming 
down  to  the  present,  Crane  said : 

"  Of  all  of  us  who  were  guests  ou  Mt.  Boab, 
Miss  Moyne  is  the  only  one  who  has  found 
success.  Her  story.  On  The  Heights^  is  in  its 
seventieth  edition." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Peck,  "that  goes  without 
the  saying.  Anybody  could  succeed  with  her 
chance." 

"  Eer  chance,  why  do  you  say  that?  *' 

"Have  n't  you  heard?  Ah,  I  see  that  the 
news  has  not  yet  penetrated  the  wilds  of  Ken- 
tucky. The  open  secret  of  Miss  Moyne's  suc- 
cess lies  in  the  fact  that  she  has  married  her 
publisher." 

A  silence  of  some  minutes  followed,  during 
which  Crane  burned  his  cigar  very  rapidly. 

"  Wliat  fools  we  were,"  Peck  presently  ven- 
tured, "  to  be  fighting  a  duel  about  her  I " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Crane,  with  a  far-away  look 


140  'A  Fortnight  of  Folly, 

in  his  eyes,  "  no,  sir,  I  would  die  for  her  right 
now/' 

So  the  subject  was  dropped  between  them 
forever. 

Some  of  Gaslucky's  creditors  bought  Hotel 
Helicon  at  the  sheriff's  sale,  but  it  proved  a  bar- 
ren investment. 

The  house  stands  there  now^  weather-beaten 
and  lonely  on  the  peak  of  Mt.  Boab,  all  tenant- 
less  and  forlorn. 

As  to  Tolliver's  still-house  I  cannot  say,  but 
at  stated  intervals  Crane  receives  a  small  cask 
marked:  '' J  yful  juice,  hannel  with  keer," 
which  comes  from  his  "  Pap's  uncle  Pete." 

THE   END. 


THE  TALE  OF  A  SCULPTOR 

By  HUGH  CONWAY 


THE  TALE  OF  A  SCULPTOR, 


CHAPTER  I. 


After  you  pass  the  ''Blue  Anchor" — the  sign  of 
which  swings  from  the  branch  of  an  ehn  tree  older 
even  than  the  house  itself — a  few  steps  along  the  road 
bring  you  in  sight  of  the  pinnacled,  square  tower  of 
Coombe-Acton  Church.  You  cannot  see  the  chnrch 
itself,  as,  with  schools  and  rectory  close  by  it,  it  lies  at  the 
back  of  the  village,  about  two  hundred  yards  up  a  lane. 
Like  the  village  to  whose  spiritual  needs  it  ministers, 
the  church,  to  an  ordinary  observer,  is  nothing  out  of 
the  common,  although  certain  small  peculiarities  of 
architecture,  not  noticed  by  an  uncultured  eye,  make 
it  an  object  of  some  interest  to  archaeologists.  Yisit  it 
or  not,  according  to  your  inclination,  but  afterwards 
keep  on  straight  through  the  long,  straggling  village, 
until  the  houses  begin  to  grow  even  more  straggling, 
the  gardens  larger  and  less  cared  for  as  ornaments,  dis- 
playing more  cabbages  and  scarlet  runners  than  roses — 
keep  on  until  the  houses  cease  altogether  and  haw- 
thorn hedges  take  the  place  of  palings  and  crumbling 
walls,  and  at  last  you  will  come  to  Watercress  Farm,  a 
long,  low  white  house,  one  side  of  which  abuts  on  the 
highway,  whilst  the  other  looks  over  the  three  hundred 
acres  of  land  attached  to  it. 


4  THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR. 

[N'ot  a  very  large  acreage,  it  is  true,  but  then  it  is  all 
good  land,  for  the  most  part  such  as  auctioneers 
describe  as  rich,  warm,  deep,  old  pasture  land ;  such 
land  that,  at  the  time  this  tale  opens,  any  farmer,  by 
thrift,  knowledge  of  his  business,  and  hard  work,  could 
make  even  more  than  a  bare  living  out  of,  and  could 
meet  his  landlord  on  rent  day  with  a  cheerful  face, 
knowing  that  after  rent  and  other  outgoings  were 
provided  for  something  w^ould  yet  be  left  for  him- 
self. 

Who  occupies  the  Watercress  Farm  now,  and 
whether  in  these  days  of  depression  his  rent  is  forth- 
coming or  not,  matters  little.  At  the  time  I  write  of  it, 
it  was  rented  by  farmer  Leigh,  even  as  his  forefathers, 
according  to  village  tradition,  had  rented  it  for  some 
two  hundred  years.  In  quiet,  conservative  places  like 
Coombe-Acton,  a  farm  of  this  kind  often  goes  from 
father  to  son  with  more  regularity  than  an  entailed 
estate,  landlord  and  tenant  well  knowing  that  their 
interests  are  identical. 

It  was  a  fine  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  June. 
Abraham  Leigh  was  standing  by  the  gate  of  the  field 
known  as  the  home  meadow  looking  at  the  long,  ripe 
grass  rippling  as  the  summer  breeze  swept  across  it. 
He  was  a  thoroughly  good  specimen  of  the  Somerset- 
shire farmer.  A  big,  sturdy  man,  whose  movements 
were  slow  and  deliberate.  His  face,  if  heavy  and 
stolid,  not  by  anj^  means  the  face  of  a  fooL  No  doubt, 
a  man  of  circumscribed  views — the  world,  for  him, 
extending  eastwards  to  Bristol  market  and  westwards 
to  the  Bristol  Channel.  Nevertheless,  respected  in  his 
little  world  as  a  wonderful  judge  of  a  beast,  a  great 
authority  on  tillages,  and,  above  all,  a  m^u  who  always 


THE  TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOR.  5 

had  a  balance  in  liis  favor  at  the  Somersetshire  Bank; 
a  type  of  that  extuict  race,  the  prosperous  farmer,  who 
looked  on  all  townsmen  with  contempt,  thinking,  as  all 
farmers  should  think,  that  the  owners  of  broad  acres, 
and  those  engaged  in  agriculture  were  alone  worthy 
of  respect. 

Yet,  to-day,  in  spite  of  his  advantages  and  acquire- 
ments, Farmer  Leigh  looked  on  the  iifteen-acre  meadow 
with  a  puzzled  and  discontented  expression  on  his 
honest  face  ;  and,  moreover,  murmurs  of  dissatisfaction 
were  proceeding  from  his  lips.  Farmers — Somerset- 
shire farmers  especially — are  proverbial  grumblers, 
but  it  is  seldom  they  grumble  without  an  audience. 
It  is  outsiders  who  get  the  benefit  of  their  complaints. 
Besides,  one  would  think  that  the  tenant  of  Watercress 
Farm  had  little  at  present  to  complain  of.  The  drop 
of  rain  so  badly  wanted  had  been  long  in  coming,  but 
it  had  come  just  in  the  nick  of  time  to  save  the  grass, 
and  if  the  crop  outwardly  looked  a  little  thin,  Mr. 
Leigh's  experienced  eye  told  him  that  the  undergrowth 
was  thick,  and  that  the  quality  of  the  hay  would  be 
first-class.  Moreover,  what  corn  and  roots  he  had 
looked  promising,  so  it  seems  strange  that  the  farmer 
should  be  grumbling  when  he  had  no  one  to  listen  to 
him,  and  should  lean  so  disconsolately  upon  the  gate  of 
the  field  when  no  one  observed  him. 

"  I  can't  make  him  out,"  he  said.  "  Good  boy  he 
be,  too ;  yet,  instead  o'  helping  me  with  the  land, 
always  going  about  dreaming  or  messing  with  mud. 
Can't  think  where  he  got  his  notions  from.  Suppose 
it  must  'a  been  from  the  mother,  poor  thing !  Always 
fond  o'  gimcracks  and  such  like,  she  were.  Gave  the 
lad  such  an  outlandish  name  I'm  ashamed  to  hear  it. 


6  THE  TALE   OF   A   SCTTLPTOR. 


Father's  and  grandfather's  name  ought  to  be  good 
enough  for  a  Leigh — good  bo\^  though  he  be,  too !" 

A  soft  look  settled  on  Abraham  Leigh's  f;ice  as  he 
repeated  tlie  hist  words ;  then  he  went  deeper  into  liis 
slough  of  despond,  where,  no  doubt,  lie  battled  as  man- 
fully as  a  Christian  until  he  reached  the  other  shore 
and  fancied  he  had  found  the  solution  of  his  difficul- 
ties. 

His  face  brightened.  "Tell  'ee  what,"  he  said, 
addressing  the  waving  grass  in  front  of  him,  "I'll  ask 
Mr.  Herbert.  Squire's  a  man  who  have  seen  the 
world.  "I'll  take  his  advice  about  the  boy.  Seems 
hard  like  on  me,  too.  Ne'er  a  Leigh  till  this  one  but 
what  were  a  farmer  to  the  backbone !" 

His  mind  made  up,  the  farmer  strode  oft  to  make 
arrangement  with  mowers.  Had  he  been  troubled 
with  twenty  unnatural  and  incompetent  sons,  the  hay 
must  be  made  while  the  sun  shines. 

Although  he  bad  settled  what  to  do,  it  was  some  time 
before  the  weighty  resolve  was  carried  into  execution. 
Folks  about  Coombe- Acton  do  not  move  with  the  ce- 
lerity of  cotton  brokers  or  other  men  of  business.  Sure 
they  are,  but  slow.  So  it  was  not  nntil  the  September 
rent  day  that  the  farmer  consulted  his  landlord  about 
his  domestic  difficulty — the  possession  of  a  son,  an  only 
child,  of  about  fifteen,  who,  instead  of  making  himself 
useful  on  the  land,  did  little  else  save  wander  about  in 
a  dreamy  way,  looking  at  all  objects  in  nature,  animate 
or  inanimate,  or  employed  himself  in  the  mysterious 
pursuit  which  his  father  described  as  "messing  with 
mud."  Such  conduct  was  a  departure  from  the  re- 
spectable bucolic  traditions  of  the  Leigh  family,  so 
great,  that  at  times  the  father  thought  it  an  infliction 


THE   TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOE.  7 

laid  upon  him  for  some  cause  or  other  by  an  inscruta- 
ble Providence. 

There  are  certain  Spanish  noblemen  who,  on  account 
of  the  antiquity  of  their  families  and  services  rendered, 
are  permitted  to  enter  the  royal  presence  with  covered 
heads.  It  was,  perhaps,  for  somewhat  similar  reasons, 
a  custom  handed  down  from  father  to  son  and  estab- 
lished by  time,  that  the  tenant  of  Watercress  Farm 
paid  his  rent  to  the  landlord  in  person,  not  through  the 
medium  of  an  agent.  Mr.  Herbert  being  an  important 
man  in  the  West  country,  the  Leigh  family  valued  this 
privilege  as  highly  as  ever  hidalgo  valued  the  one  above 
mentioned.  Mr.  Herbert,  a  refined,  intellectual-looking 
man  of  about  fifty,  received  the  farmer  kindly,  and  after 
the  rent,  without  a  word  as  to  abatement  or  reduction, 
had  been  paid  in  notes  of  the  county  bank — dark  and 
greasy,  but  valued  in  this  particular  district  far  above 
Bank  of  England  promises — landlord  and  tenant  settled 
down  to  a  few  minutes'  conversation  on  crops  and  kin- 
dred subjects.     Then  the  farmer  unburdened  his  mind. 

"I've  come  to  ask  a  favor  of  your  advice,  sir,  about 
my  boy,  Jerry." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Herbert,  "I  know  him — a  nice, 
good-looking  boy.  I  see  him  at  church  with  you,  and 
about  your  place  when  I  pass.     What  of  him  ?" 

"  Well,  you  zee,  zur,"  said  the  farmer,  speaking  with 
more  Somerset  dialect  than  usual,  ''he've  a  been  at 
Bristol  Grammar  School  till  just  now.  Masters  all 
ocnd  good  accounts  of  him.  I  don't  hold  wi'  too 
much  learning,  so  tlionght  'twere  time  he  come  home 
and  helped  me  like.  But  not  a  bit  o'  good  he  be  on 
the  varm ;  not  a  bit,  zur !  Spends  near  all  his  time 
messing  about  wi'  dirt." 


8  THE  TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOR. 

"Doing  what?"  asked  Mr,  Herbert,  astonished. 

"  A-muddling  and  a-messing  with  bits  o'  clay.  Mak- 
ing little  figgers,  like,  and  tries  to  bake  'em  in  the 
oven." 

"  Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean.    What  sort  of  figures  ?" 

"All  sorts,  sir.  Little  clay  figgers  of  horses,  dogs, 
pigs — why,  you'd  scarce  believe  it,  sir — last  week  I 
found  liim  making  the  iigger  of  a  naked  'ooman  !  A 
naked  'ooman  !  Why,  the  lad  could  never  a'  seen  such 
a  thing." 

Abraham  Leigh  waited  with  open  e^^es  to  hear  Mr. 
Herbert's  opinion  of  such  an  extraordinary,  if  not  pos- 
itively unusual,  proceeding. 

Mr.  Herbert  smiled.  "  Perhaps  your  son  is  a  youth- 
ful genius." 

"  Genius  or  not,  I  want  to  know,  sir,  wdiat  to  do  wi' 
him.  How's  the  boy  to  make  a  living?  A  farmer 
he'll  never  be." 

"  You  follow  me  and  I  will  show  you  something." 

Mr.  Herbert  led  his  guest  to  his  drawing-room — a 
room  furnished  with  the  taste  of  a  travelled  man.  As 
the  farmer  gaped  at  its  splendor,  he  directed  his  atten- 
tion to  four  beautiful  statues  standing  in  the  corners 
of  the  room. 

"  I  gave  the  man  who  made  tliose  seven  hundred 
pounds  for  them,  and  could  sell  them  to-morrow  for  a 
thousand  if  I  chose.  That's  almost  as  good  as  farm- 
ino-.  isn't  it?" 

His  tenant's  eyes  were  wide  with  amazement.  "  A 
thousand  pounds,  sir !  "  he  gasped.  "  Why,  you  might 
have  bought  that  fourteen-acre  field  with  that." 

"  These  give  me  more  pleasure  than  land,"  replied 
Mr.  Herbert.     "  But  about  your  boy ;  when  I  am  rid- 


THE  TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOR.  9 

ing  by  I  will  look  in  and  see  what  he  can  do,  then 
give  yon  my  advict." 

The  farmer  thankod  him  and  returned  home.  As 
he  jogged  along  the  road  to  Watercress  Farm,  he  mut- 
tered at  intervals:  "A  thousand  pounds  in  those  white 
figures  !     Well,  well,  well,  I  never  did  !  " 

Mr.  Herbert  was  a  man  who  kept  a  promise,  whether 
made  to  high  or  low.  Five  days  after  his  interview 
with  Abraham  Leigh  he  rode  up  to  the  door  of  the 
farm.  He  was  not  alone.  By  his  side  rode  a  gay, 
laughing,  light-haired  child  of  thirteen,  who  ruled  an 
indnl«:ent  father  with  a  rod  of  iron.  Mr.  Herbert  had 
been  a  widower  for  some  years  ;  the  girl,  and  a  boy 
who  was  just  leaving  Harrow  for  the  university,  being 
his  only  surviving  children.  The  boy  was,  perhaps, 
all  that  Mr.  Herbert  might  have  wished,  but  he  could 
see  no  fault  in  the  precocious,  imperious,  spoilt  little 
maid,  who  was  the  sunshine  of  his  life. 

She  tripped  lightly  after  her  father  into  the  farm- 
house, laughing  at  the  way  in  which  he  was  obliged  to 
bend  his  head  to  avoid  damage  from  the  low  doorway ; 
she  seated  herself  with  becoming  dignity  on  the  chair 
which  the  widowed  sister,  who  kept  house  for  Abra- 
ham Leigh,  tendered  her  with  many  courtesies.  A 
pretty  child,  indeed,  and  one  who  gave  rare  promise  of 
growing  into  a  lovely  woman. 

The  farmer  was  away  somewhere  on  the  farm,  but 
could  be  fetched  in  a  minute  if  Mr.  Herbert  would 
wait.  Mr.  Herbert  waited,  and  very  soon  his  tenant 
made  his  appearance  and  thanked  his  visitor  for  the 
trouble  he  was  taking  on  his  behalf. 

"  Now  let  me  see  the  boy,"  said  Mr.  Herbert,  after 
disclaiming  all  sense  of  trouble. 


10  THE  TALE   OF  A    SCULPTOR. 

Leigh  went  to  the  door  of  the  room  and  shouted 
out,  "  Jerrj,  Jerry,  come  down.  You're  wanted,  my 
man." 

In  a  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  cause  of  Mr. 
Leigh's  dtscontent  came  upon  the  scene  in  the  form  of 
a  dark-e)'ed,  dark-liaired.  pale-faced  boy.  tall  but  slightly 
built ;  not,  so  far  as  physique  went,  much  credit  to 
the  country-side.  Yet  in  some  respects  a  striking-look- 
ing if  not  handsome  lad.  The  dark,  eloquent  eyes 
and  strongly-marked  brow  would  arrest  attention  ;  but 
the  face  was  too  thin,  too  thoughtful  for  the  age,  and 
could  scarcely  be  associated  with  what  commonly  con- 
stitutes a  good-looking  lad.  Yet  regularity  of  feature 
was  there,  and  no  one  would  dare  to  be  sure  that 
beauty  would  not  come  with  manhood. 

He  was  not  seen  at  that  moment  under  advantageous 
circumstances.  Knowing  nothing  about  the  distin- 
guished visitors,  he  had  obeyed  his  father's  summons 
in  hot  haste ;  consequently  he  entered  the  room  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  which  were  certainly  not  very  clean,  and 
with  hands  covered  with  red  clay.  Mr.  Herbert 
looked  amused,  while  the  little  princess  turned  up  her 
nose  in  great  disdain. 

Poor  Abraham  Leigh  was  much  mortified  at  the 
unpresentable  state  in  which  his  son  showed  himself. 
To  make  matters  worse,  the  boy  was  not  soiled  by 
honest,  legitimate  toil. 

"  Tut !  tut !"  he  said,  crossly.  "  All  of  a  muck,  as 
usual." 

The, boy,  who  felt  that  his  father  had  a  right  to  com- 
plain, hung  his  head  and  showed  signs  of  retreating. 
Mr.  Herbert  come  to  the  rescue. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said,  patting  young  Leigh  on  the 


THE  TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOE.  11 

shoulder,  "he  has  been  working  in  his  own  fashion. 
I  have  come  on  purpose  to  see  those  modellings  of 
yours,  my  boy." 

The  boy  started  as  one  surprised.  His  cheek 
flubiied,  and  he  looked  at  the  speaker  with  incredulity 
yet  hope  in  liis  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  father,  sharply.  "  Go  and  put 
your  hands  under  the  pump,  Jerry  ;  then  bring  some 
of  'em  down.  Maybe,  anyway,  they'll  amuse  the  lit- 
tle lady." 

"  E"o,  no,"  said  Mr.  Herbert.  '^  I'll  come  with  you 
and  see  them  for  myself.     Lead  the  way." 

Young  Leigli  did  not  speak,  but  his  eyes  thanked 
Mr.  Herbert.  That  gentleman  followed  him  from  the 
room,  leaving  the  farmer  to  amuse  the  little  maid. 
He  did  this  so  far  as  he  was  able  by  producing  a  well- 
thumbed  copy  of  the  "  Pilg]-im's  Progress,"  the  leaves 
of  whicli  Miss  Herbert  condescended  to  turn  daintily 
over  until  she  was  quite  terrified  by  the  picture  of  the 
combat  with  ApoUyon. 

Meanwhile  "Jerry,"  with  a  beating  heart,  led  Mr. 
Herbert  up-stairs  to  a  room  destitute  of  furniture  save 
an  old  table  and  chair.  A  bucket  half-full  of  common 
red  clay  stood  in  one  corner,  and  on  the  table  were 
several  of  the  little  clay  figures  which  had  excited  the 
farmer's  ire  and  consternation. 

Crude,  defective,  full  of  faults  as  they  were,  there 
was  enough  power  in  them  to  make  Mr.  Herbert  look 
at  the  lad  in  wonderment,  almost  envy.  He  was  a 
man  who  worshipped  art ;  who  had  dal)bled  as  an 
amateur  in  painting  and  sculpturing  for  years ;  who 
considered  a  gifted  artist  the  most  fortunate  of  man- 
kind.    So  the  word  envy  is  not  ill-chosen.     What  he 


12  THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR. 

would  have  given  half  his  wealth  to  possess  came  t6 
this  boy  unsought  for — to  the  son  of  a  clod  of  a  farmer 
the  precious  gift  was  vouchsafed  ! 

As  he  would  have  expected,  the  most  ambitious  ef- 
forts were  the  worst — tiie  "  naked  'ooman  "  was  par- 
ticularly atrocious — but,  still  wet,  and  not  ruined  by 
An  abortive  attempt  at  baking,  was  a  group  modelled 
from  life  ;  a  vulgar  subject,  representing,  as  it  did, 
Abraham  Leigh's  prize  sow,  surrounded  by  her  ten 
greedy  offspring.  There  was  such  power  and  talent 
in  this  production  that,  had  he  seen  nothing  else,  Mr. 
Herbert  would  have  been  certain  that  the  lad  as  a 
modeller  and  copyist  must  take  the  first  rank.  If,  in 
addition  to  his  manual  dexterity,  he  had  poetrj^  feel- 
ing, and  imngination,  it  might  well  be  that  one  of  the 
greatest  sculptors  of  the  nineteenth  century  stood  in 
embryo  before  him. 

As  Mr.  Herbei't  glanced  from  the  rough  clay  sketches 
to  the  pale  boy  who  stood  breathless,  as  one  expecting 
a  verdict  of  life  or  death,  he  wondered  what  could  have 
been  the  cause  of  such  a  divergence  from  the  traits 
habitual  to  the  Leighs.  Then  he  remembered  that 
some  twenty  years  ago  Abraham  Leigh  had  chosen  for 
a  wife,  not  one  of  his  own  kind,  but  a  dweller  in  cities 
— a  governess,  who  exchanged,  no  doubt,  a  life  of  pen- 
ury and  servitude  for  the  rough  but  comfortable  home 
the  Somersetshire  fanner  was  willing  to  give  her.  Mr. 
Herbert  remembered  her;  remembered  how  utterly  out 
of  place  the  delicate,  refined  woman  seemed  to  be  as 
Leigh's  wife ;  remembered  how,  a  few  years  after  the 
birth  of  the  boy,  she  sickened  and  died.  It  was  from 
the  mother's  side  the  artistic  taste  came. 

Mr.  Herbert,  although  a  kind  man,  was  cautious. 


THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR.  13 

He  had  no  intention  of  raising  liopes  which  might  be 
futile.  Yet  he  felt  a  word  of  encouragement  was  due 
to  the  lad. 

"  Some  of  these  figures  show  decided  talent,"  he 
said.  "After  seeing  them,  I  need  scarcely  ask  you  if 
you  wish  to  be  a  sculptor?" 

Young  Leigh  clasped  his  hands  together.  ''  Oh,  sir!" 
he  gasped.     "  If  it  could  only  be !" 

^' You  do  not  care  to  be  a  farmer,  like  your  father?" 

"  I  could  never  be  a  farmer,  sir.  I  am  not  fit  for 
it." 

"  Yet,  if  you  follow  in  your  father's  track,  you  will 
lead  a  comfortable,  useful  life.  If  you  follow  art,  you 
may  go  through  years  of  poverty  and  suffering  before 
success  is  attained." 

The  boy  raised  his  head  and  looked  full  at  the 
speaker ;  there  was  almost  passionate  entreaty  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  he  said,  "  if  you  wou^d  only  pursuade  my 
father  to  let  me  try — even  for  a  few  years.  If  I  did 
not  succeed  I  would  come  back  to  him  and  work  as  a 
laborer  for  the  rest  of  my  life  without  a  murmur." 

Mr.  Herbert  was  impressed  by  the  boy's  earnestness, 
''  I  will  speak  to  your  father,"  he  said.  Then  the  two 
went  back  to  the  sitting-room,  where  they  found  Abra- 
ham Leigh  much  exercised  by  some  difficult  questions 
propounded  by  Miss  Herbert  respecting  the  nature  of 
Apollyon. 

"Take  my  little  girl  for  a  walk  round  the  garden," 
said  Mr.  Herbert  to  young  Leigh.  "I  want  to  speak 
to  your  father." 

In  spite  of  the  great  gulf  between  her  and  the  clay- 
bespattered  boy  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  the  little  princess 


14  THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR. 

was  too  glad  of  a  change  of  scene  to  wish  to  disobey 
her  father.  Slie  followed  her  conductor  to  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  the  boj  and  girl  stepped  out  into  the 
autumnal  sunshine. 

The  little  maid  looked  so  trim  and  dainty  in  her 
neat  riding-habit,  coquettish  hat  and  tiny  gloves  that 
his  own  draggled  appearance  struck  the  boy  forcibly. 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me  a  minute,"  he  said,  "  I  will 
fun  and  wash  my  hands." 

"  Yes ;  I  think  it  will  be  better,"  said  Miss  Herbert, 
with  dignity. 

In  a  minute  or  two  young  Leigh  returned.  He  had 
found  time  not  ou\y  to  wash  the  rich  red  clay  from  his 
long,  well-shaped  lingers,  but  to  slip  on  his  coat  and 
generally  beautify  himself.  His  improved  appearance 
had  a  great  effect  upon  the  child,  who,  like  most  of  her 
age,  was  influenced  by  exteriors. 

So  Miss  Herbert,  this  little  great  lady,  unbent  and 
allowed  "Jerry"  to  lead  her  round  the  old-fashioned 
garden,  to  the  out-houses  and  pigsties,  where  the  obese 
pigs  lay  oblivious  of  what  fate  had  in  store  for  them; 
to  the  stables ;  ^o  the  dairy,  where  she  condescended 
to  drink  a  glass  of  new  milk,  and  by  the  time  they  had 
returned  to  the  garden  the  two  were  as  good  friends  as 
their  different  stations  in  life  would  permit.  Young 
Leigh,  who  saw  in  this  dainty  little  maid  the  incarna- 
tion of  fairies,  nymphs,  goddesses,  and  other  ideals 
which,  in  a  dim  way,  were  forming  themselves  in  his 
brain,  endeavored,  after  his  first  shyness  had  passed 
away,  to  show  her  what  beautiful  shapes  and  forms 
could  be  found  in  flower,  leaf,  and  tree,  and  other 
things  in  nature.  His  talk,  indeed,  soared  far  above 
her  pretty  little  head,  and  when  they  returned  to  the 


THE  TALE   OF   A    SCULPTOR.  15 

garden  he  was  trying  to  make  her  see  that  those  masses 
of  white  clouds  low  down  in  the  distance  were  two 
bodies  of  warriors  jnst  about  to  meet  in  deadly  fray. 

"  You  are  a  very,  very  funny  boy,"  said  Miss  Her- 
bert, with  such  an  air  of  conviction  that  he  was  startled 
into  silence. 

"Your  name  is  Jerry,  isn't  it?"  she  continued. 
^'Jerry's  an  ugly  name." 

"  My  name  is  Gerald — Gerald  Leigh." 

''  Oh  ;  Gerald  !"  Even  this  child  could  see  the  im- 
propriety of  a  tenant  farmer  having  a  son  named 
Gerald.  No  wonder  Abraham  Leigh  addressed  his 
boy  as  Jerry ! 

*'Do  you  like  being  a  farmer?"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  be  a  farmer  ;  I  don't  like  it." 

"  What  a  pity  !  Farmers  are  such  a  wortll3^  respect- 
able class  of  men,"  said  the  girl,  using  a  stock  phrase 
she  had  caught  up  somewhere. 

The  boy  laughed  merrily.  Mr.  Herbert's  approba- 
tion sat  newly  upon  him,  and  he  was  only  talking  to  a 
child  ;  so  he  said  : 

"  I  hope  to  be  worthy  and  respectable,  but  a  much 
greater  man  than  a  farmer." 

"  Oh  !     How  great  ?  as  great  as  papa  ?" 

''  Yes ;  I  hope  so." 

"  That's  absurd,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Herbert,  with 
all  the  outraged  family  pride  that  thirteen  years  can  feel; 
and,  turning  away,  she  switched  at  the  flowers  with 
her  riding-whip. 

However,  a  few  words  from  Gerald  made  them 
friends  once  more,  and  she  expressed  her  pleasure  that 
he  should  pick  her  one  of  the  few  roses  which  remained 
in  the  garden. 


16  THE  TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOR. 

"  Roses  are  common,"  said  the  boj.  "  Every  one 
gives  roses.     I  will  give  you  something  prettier." 

He  went  to  the  sunny  side  of  the  house,  and  soon 
returned  with  half  a  dozen  pale  lavender  stars  in  his 
hands.  They  w^ere  blossoms  of  a  new  sort  of  late  cle- 
matis, which  some  one's  gardener  had  given  Abraham 
Leio^h.  Gerald's  deft  fino^ers  arransred  them  into  a  most 
artistic  bouquet,  the  appearance  of  which  was  entirely 
spoilt  by  Miss  Herbert's  insistance  that  two  or  thi-ee 
roses  should  be  added.  The  bouquet  was  just  finished 
and  presented  wdieii  Mr.  Herbert,  followed  by  the 
farmer,  appeared. 

Although  he  said  nothing  more  to  young  Leigh  on 
the  subject  which  was  uppermost  in  the  boy's  mind,  the 
kindly  encouraging  look  he  gave  him  raised  the  widest 
hopes  in  his  heart.  Mr.  Herbert  bade  the  father  and 
son  a  pleasant  good-day,  and  rode  off  with  his  little 
daughter. 

Miss  Herbert  carried  the  bunch  of  clematis  for  about 
two  miles  when,  finding  it  rather  encumbered  her, 
tossed  it  over  a  hedge. 

Gerald  Leigh  went  back  to  his  attic  and  commenced 
about  half  a  dozen  clay  sketches  of  the  prettiest  object 
which  as  yet  had  crossed  his  path.  For  several  days 
he  was  on  thorns  to  hear  what  fate  had  in  store  for 
him;  but  fate,  personified  by  his  father,  made  no  sign, 
but  went  about  his  work  stolid  and  sphinx-like.  Mr. 
Herbert,  Gerald  learned,  had  gone  to  London  for  a  few 
days. 

However,  before  a  fortnight  had  gone  by,  Abraham 
Leigh  received  a  letter  from  his  landlord,  and  the  same 
evening,  whilst  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  farm  kitchen, 
informed  his  son  and  his  sister  that  to-morrow  he  was 


THE  TALE   OF  A  SCULPTOR.  17 

going  into  Gloucestershire  to  see  if  his  brother  Joseph 
could  spare  him  one  of  his  many  boys  to  to  take  Jerry's 
place.  Jerry  was  to  go  to  London  the  next  day  and 
meet  Mr.  Herbert.  Most  likely  he'd  stay  there.  'Twas 
clear  as  noontide  the  boy  would  never  make  a  farmer, 
and  if  there  were  fools  enough  in  the  w^orld  to  buy 
white  figures  at  hundreds  of  pounds  apiece,  Jerry 
might  as  well  try  to  make  his  living  that  way  as  any 
other. 

The  truth  is,  Mr.  Herbert  told  Abraham  Leigh  that 
if  he  would  not  consent  to  pay  for  his  son's  art  educa- 
tion, he,  Mr.  Herbert,  would  bear  the  expense  himself. 
But  the  monetary  part  of  it  troubled'  the  substantial 
farmer  little.  He  could  pay  for  his  child's  keep  if  he 
could  bring  his  mind  to  consent  to  his  going.  And 
now  the  consent  was  given. 

Gerald  heard  his  father's  communication  with  glow- 
ing eyes.  For  shame's  sake  he  hid  his  joy,  for  he  knew 
that,  with  all  his  stolid  demeanor,  his  father  almost 
broke  down  as  he  contemplated  the  diverging  paths 
his  son  and  he  must  henceforward  thread.  The  boy 
thanked  him  from  his  heart,  and  the  rough  farmer,  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  his  child's  head,  blessed  him  and  bade 
him  go  and  prosper. 

In  this  way  Gerald  Leigh  left  Coombe- Acton.  At 
long  intervals  he  reappeared  for  a  few  days.  The 
worthy  villagers  eyed  him  askance ;  the  only  concep- 
tion they  could  form  of  his  profession  being  connected 
with  dark-skinned  itinerants  who  bore  double-tiered 
platforms  on  their  heads,  and  earned  a  precarious  live- 
hood  by  traversing  the  country  selling  conventional 
representations  of  angels  and  busts  of  eminent  men. 
% 


18  THE  TALE  OF  A  SCULPTOR. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

Some  seven  years  after  the  ambitious  boy  left  Coombe- 
Acton,  honest  farmer  Abraham,  just  when  the  old- 
fashioned  hawthorn  hedges  were  in  whitest  bloom, 
sickened,  turned  his  stolid  face  to  the  wall  and  died. 
Gerald  had  been  summoned,  but  arrived  too  late  to  see 
his  father  alive.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  it  should  be  so, 
the  farmer's  last  moments  were  troubled  ones  and  full 
of  regret  that  Watercress  Farm  would  no  longer  know 
a  Leigh.  The  nephew  who  had  taken  Gerald's  place 
had  turned  out  an  utter  failure,  so  much  so  that  Abra- 
ham Leigh  had  roundly  declared  that  he  would  be 
bothered  with  no  more  boys,  and  for  the  last  few  years 
had  managed  his  business  single-handed.  However, 
although  Gerald's  upheaval  of  family  traditions  made 
the  farmer's  deathbed  unhappy,  he  showed  that  his  son 
had  not  forfeited  his  love.  All  he  possessed,  some 
three  thousand  pounds,  was  left  to  him.  Mr.  Herbert 
took  the  lease  of  the  farm  off  the  young  man's  hands, 
by  and  by  the  live  and  the  dead  stock  were  sold  off,  and 
Watercress  Farm  was  waiting  for  another  tenant. 

The  winding-up  of  the  father's  affairs  kept  Gei-ald 
in  the  neighborhood  of  some  weeks,  and  when  it  became 
known  that  Mr.  Herbert  had  insisted  upon  his  taking 
up  his  quarters  at  the  hall  the  simple  Coombe-Acton 
folks  were  striken  with  a  great  wonder.  Knowing 
nothing  of  what  is  called  the  "  aristocracy  of  art,"  their 
minds  were  much  exercised  by  such  an  unheard  of  pro- 
ceeding. What  had  "  Jerry  "  Leigh  being  doing  in  the 
last  seven  years  to  merit  such  a  distinction  ? 


THE  TALE  OF  A   SCULPTOR.  Id 

I^othing  his  agricultural  friends  could  have  under- 
stood. After  picking  up  the  rudiments  of  his  art  in  a 
well-known  sculptor's  studio,  young  Leigh  had  been 
sent  to  study  in  the  schools  at  Paris.  Mr.  Herbert 
told  him  that,  so  far  as  his  art  was  concerned,  Paris 
was  the  workshop  of  the  world, — Rome  its  bazaar  and 
showroom.  So  to  Paris  the  boy  went.  He  studied 
hard  and  lived  frugally.  He  won  certain  prizes  and 
medals,  and  was  now  looking  forward  to  the  time  when 
he  must  strike  boldly  for  fame.  Even  now  he  was 
not  quite  unknown.  A  couple  of  modest  but  very 
beautiful  studies  in  low  relief  had  appeared  in  last 
year's  exhibition,  and,  if  overlooked  by  the  majority, 
had  attracted  the  notice  of  a  few  whose  praise  was  well 
worth  winning.  He  was  quite  satisfied  with  the  re- 
sults of  his  first  attempt.  In  all  things  that  concerned 
his  art  he  was  wise  and  patient.  No  sooner  had  lie 
placed  his  foot  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  ladder  than  he 
realized  the  amount  of  work  to  be  done — the  technical 
skill  to  be  acquired  before  he  could  call  himself  a 
sculptor.  Even  now,  after  seven  years'  study  and 
labor,  he  had  selfdenial  enough  to  resolve  upon  being 
a  pupil  for  three  years  longer  before  he  made  his 
great  effort  to  place  himself  by  the  side  of  contempo- 
rary sculptors.  Passionate  and  impulsive  as  w^as  his 
true  nature,  he  could  follow  and  woo  art  with  that 
calm  persistency  and  method  which  seem  to  be  the 
surest  way  of  winning  her  smiles. 

He  is  now  a  man — a  singularly  handsome  man.  If 
not  so  tall  as  his  youth  promised,  he  is  well  built  and 
graceful.  Artist  is  stamped  all  over  him.  Brow, 
eyes,  even  the  slender,  well-shaped  hands,  proclaim  it. 
The  general  expression  of  his  face  is  one  of  calm  and 


20  THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR. 

repose ;  yet  an  acute  observer  might  assert  that,  when 
the  moment  came,  that  face  might  despict  passions 
stronger  than  those  which  sway  most  men. 

His  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  something  in  tlie  style 
of  his  dress,  gave  him  a  look  not  quite  that  of  an  Eng- 
lishman— a  look  that  terribly  vexed  poor  Al)raham 
Leigh  on  those  rare  occasions  when  his  erratic  boy 
paid  him  a  visit;  but,  nevertheless,  it  is  a  look  not  out 
of  place  on  a  young  artist. 

This  is  the  kind  of  man  Gerald  Leigh  has  grown 
into ;  and,  whilst  his  transformation  has  been  in  pro- 
gress, Miss  Eugenia  Herbert  has  become  a  woman. 

Although  remembering  every  feature  of  the  child, 
who  seemed  in  some  way  associated  with  the  day  of 
his  liberation,  Gerald  had  not  again  seen  her  until  his 
father's  death  called  him  back  to  England.  Each  time 
he  had  visited  Coombe-Acton  he  had,  of  course,  re- 
ported progress  to  Mr.  Herbert ;  but,  shortly  after  the 
change  in  his  life,  Mr.  Herbert  by  a  great  effort  of 
self-denial,  had  sent  his  darling  away  to  school,  and  at 
school  she  had  always  been  when  Gerald  called  at  the 
Hall ;  but  now,  when  he  accepted  Mr.  Herbert's  hos- 
pitality, he  found  the  fairy-like  child  grown,  it  seemed 
to  him,  into  his  ideal  woman,  and  found,  moreover, 
that  there  was  a  passion  so  intense  that  even  the  love 
of  art  must  pale  before  it. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  resist  it.  He  let  it  master 
him  ;  overwhelm  him  ;  sweep  him  along.  Ere  a  week 
had  gone  by,  not  only  by  looks,  but  also  in  burning 
words,  he  had  told  Eugenia  he  loved  her.  And  how 
did  he  fare  ? 

His  very  audacity  and  disregard  of  everything,  save 
that  he  loved  the  girl,  succeeded  to  a  marvel.     Eugenia 


THE  TALE   OF  A  SCULPTOR.  21 

bad  already  met  with  many  admirers,  but  not  one  like 
this.  Such  passionate  pleading,  such  fiery  love,  such 
vivid  eloquence  were  strange  and  new  to  her.  There 
was  an  oris^inalitv,  a  freshness,  a  thorous^hness  in  the 
love  be  offered  her.  His  very  unreasonableness  affected 
her  reason.  All  the  wealth  of  his  imagination,  all  the 
crystallizations  of  his  poetical  dreams,  he  threw  into 
bis  passion.  His  ecstasy  whirled  the  girl  from  her 
mental  feet ;  his  warmth  created  an  answering  warmth  ; 
bis  reckless  pleading  conquered.  She  forgot  obstacles 
as  his  eloquence  overleaped  them  ;  she  forgot  social  dis- 
tinction as  his  great  dark  eyes  looked  into  hers,  and  at 
last  she  confessed  she  loved  him. 

Then  Gerald  Leigh  came  down  from  the  clouds  and 
realized  what  he  had  done,  and  as  soon  as  he  touched 
the  earth  and  became  reasonable  Eugenia  fancied  she 
did  not  care  for  him  quite  so  much. 

His  conscience  smote  him.  Not  only  must  Mr. 
Herbert  be  reckoned  with,  but  a  terrible  interval  must 
elapse  before  he  had  fame  and  fortune  to  lay  before 
Eugenia.  He  could  scarcely  expect  her  to  leave  her 
luxurious  home  in  order  to  live  an  quatrieme  or  aic 
cinquieme  in  Paris  whilst  he  completed  his  studies. 
He  grew  sad  and  downcast  as  he  thought  of  these 
things,  and  Eugenia,  who  liked  pleasant,  bright,  well- 
to-do  people,  felt  less  kindly  disposed  toward  him  and 
showed  she  did  so. 

This  made  him  reckless  again.  He  threw  the  future 
to  the  winds,  recommenced  his  passionate  wooing, 
recovered  his  lost  ground  and  gained,  perhaps,  a  little 
more. 

But  Abraham  Leigh's  affairs  were  settled  up,  and 
Gerald  knew  he  must  tear  himself  from  Aetoa  Hall 


22  a:HE  TALE  OF  A   SCtJLPTOIt. 

and  go  back  to  work.  He  had  lingered  a  few  days  to 
finish  a  bust  of  Mr.  Herbert.  This  done  he  had  no 
excuse  for  staying  longer. 

The  summer  twilight  deepened  into  night.  The 
sculptor  and  Miss  Herbert  stood  upon  the  broad  and 
gravelled  terrace-walk  that  runs  along  the  stately  front 
of  Acton  Hall.  They  leaned  upon  the  gray  stone  balus- 
trade ;  the  girl  with  musing  eye  was  looking  down  on 
shadowy  lawn  and  flower-bed  underneatli  ;  the  young 
man  looked  at  her.  and  her  alone.  Silence  reigned 
long  between  them,  but  at  last  she  spoke. 

"You  really  go  to-morrow?" 

"  Tell  me  to  stay,  and  I  will  stay,"  he  said,  passion- 
ately, "  but  next  week — next  month — next  year,  the 
moment,  when  it  does  come,  will  be  just  as  bitter." 

She  did  not  urge  him.  She  was  silent.  He  drew 
very  near  to  lier. 

"  Eugenia,"  he  whispered,  "you  love  me?" 

"I  think  so."  Her  eyes  were  still  looking  over  the 
darkening  garden.  She  spoke  dreamily,  and  as  one 
who  is  not  quite  certain. 

"You  think  so!  Listen!  Before  we  part  let  me 
tell  you  what  your  love  means  to  me.  K,  when  first 
I  asked  for  it  you  had  scorned  me,  I  could  have  left 
you  unhappy,  but  still  a  man.  Now  it  means  life  or 
death  to  me.  There  is  no  middle  course — no  question 
of  joy  or  misery — simply  life  or  death  !  Eugenia,  look 
at  me  and  say  you  love  me!" 

His  dark  eyes  charmed  and  compelled  her.  "I  love 
you  !  I  love  you  ?"  she  murmured.  Her  words  satisfied 
him  ;  moreover,  she  let  the  hand  he  grasped  remain  in 
his,  perhaps  even  returning  the  pressure  of  his  own. 
So  they  stood  for  more  than  au  hour,  whilst  Gerald 


THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR.  23 

talked  of  the  future  and  the  fame  he  meant  to  win — 
talked  as  one  who  has  the  fullest  confidence  in  his  own 
powers  and  directing  genius. 

Presently  they  saw  Mr.  Herbert  walking  through  the 
twilight  towards  them.  Gerald's  hand  tightened  on 
the  girl's  so  as  to  cause  her  positive  pain. 

"  Eemember,"  he  whispered  ;  ''  life  or  death  !  Think 
of  it  while  we  are  apart.  Your  love  means  a  man's 
life  or  death !" 

Many  a  lover  has  said  an  equally  extravagant  thing, 
but  Euo^enia  Herbert  knew  that  his  words  were  not 
those  of  poetical  imagery,  and  as  she  re-entered  the 
house  she  trembled  at  the  passion  she  had  aroused. 
What  if  time  and  opposition  should  work  a  change  in 
her  feelings?  She  tried  to  reassure  herself  by  thinking 
that  if  she  did  not  love  him  in  the  same  blind,  reckless 
way,  at  any  rate  she  would  never  meet  another  man 
whom  she  could  love  as  she  loved  Gerald  Leigh. 

The  sculptor  went  back  to  Paris — to  his  art  and  his 
dreams  of  love  and  fame.  Two  years  slipped  by  with- 
out any  event  of  serious  import  happening  to  the  per- 
sons about  whom  we  are  concerned.  Then  came  a  great 
change. 

Mr.  Herbert  died  so  suddenly  that  neither  doctor  nor 
iawyer  could  be  summoned  in  time,  either  to  aid  him 
to  live  or  to  carry  out  his  last  wishes.  His  will  gave 
Eugenia  two  thousand  pounds  and  an  estate  he  owned 
in  Gloucestershire — everything  else  to  his  son.  Unfor- 
tunately, some  six  months  before,  he  had  sold  the 
Gloucestershii-e  property,  and,  with  culpable  negli- 
gence, had  not  made  a  fresh  will.  Therefore,  the 
small  money  bequest  was  all  that  his  daughter  could 
claim.    However,  this  seemed  of  little  moment,  as  her 


24  THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOE. 

brother  at  once  announced  his  intention  of  settling 
upon  her  the  amount  to  wliich  she  was  equitably  en- 
titled. He  had  given  his  solicitors  instructions  to  pre- 
pare the  deed. 

James  Herbert,  Eugenia's  brother,  was  unmarried, 
and  at  present  had  no  intention  of  settling  down  to 
the  life  of  a  country  gentleman.  Six  weeks  after  Mr. 
Herbert's  death  the  greater  number  of  the  servants 
were  paid  off,  and  Acton  Hall  was  practically  shut  up. 
Eugenia,  after  spending  some  weeks  with  friends  in 
the  north  of  England,  came  to  London  to  live  for  an 
indefinite  time  with  her  mother's  sister,  a  Mrs.  Cath- 
cart. 

Since  her  father's  death  Gerald  Leigh  had  written  to 
her  several  times — letters  full  of  passionate  love  and 
penned  as  if  the  writer  felt  sure  of  her  constancy  and 
wish  to  keep  her  promise.  He,  too,  was  coming  to 
London.  Had  she  wished  it,  he  would  at  once  have 
come  to  her  side ;  but  as  it  was  he  would  take  up  his 
quarters  in  town  about  the  same  time  Eugenia  arrived 
there. 

The  hour  was  at  hand — the  hour  to  which  Miss  Her- 
bert had  for  two  years  looked  forward  with  strangely 
mingled  feelings — when  her  friends  must  be  told  that 
she  intended  to  marry  the  young,  and  as  yet  unknown 
sculptor,  Gerald  Leigh,  the  son  of  her  father's  late 
tenant  farmer,  Abraham. 

She  loved  him  still.  She  felt  sure  of  that  much. 
If  time  and  absence  had  somewhat  weakened  the  spell 
he  had  thrown  over  her  proud  nature,  she  knew  that 
unless  the  man  was  greatly  changed  the  magic  of  his 
words  and  looks  would  sway  her  as  irresistibly  as  be- 
fore.    She  loved  him,  yet  rebelled  against  her  fate. 


THE  TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOE.  25 

Her  father  had  died  ignorant  of  what  had  passed 
between  his  daughter  and  the  young  artist.  Many  a 
time  Eugenia  had  tried  to  bring  herself  to  confess  the 
trutli  to  him.  She  now  regretted  she  had  not  done  so. 
Mr.  Herbert's  approval  or  disapproval  would  have 
been  at  least  a  staff  by  which  to  guide  her  steps.  He 
had  suspected  nothing.  The  few  letters  whicli  passed 
between  the  lovers  had  been  unnoticed.  Their  love 
was  as  yet  a  secret  known  only  to  themselves. 

She  loved  him,  but  why  had  he  dared  to  make  her 
love  liim  ?  Or,  why  was  he  not  well-born  and  wealthy  ? 
Could  she  find  strength  to  face,  for  his  sake,  the  scorn 
of  her  friends  ? 

She  must  decide  at  once.  She  is  sitting  and  think- 
ino^  all  these  thino^s  in  her  own  room  at  Mrs.  Cathcart's, 
and  in  front  of  her  lies  a  letter  in  whicli  Gerald  an- 
nounces his  intention  of  calling  upon  her  to-morrow. 
She  knows  that  if  she  receives  him  she  will  be  bound 
to  proclaim  herself  his  affianced  wife. 

He  called.  She  saw  him.  Mrs.  Cathcart  was  out, 
^0  Eugenia  was  alone  when  the  servant  announced  Mr. 
Leigh.  She  started  and  turned  pale.  She  trembled 
in  every  limb  as  he  crossed  the  room  to  where  she 
stood.  He  took  her  hand  and  looked  into  her  face. 
He  spoke,  and  his  rich  musical  voice  thrilled  her. 

"Eugenia,  is  it  life  or  death?" 

She  could  not  answer.  She  could  not  turn  her  eyes 
from  his.  She  saw  the  intensity  of  their  expression 
deepen  ;  saw  a  fierce  yearning  look  come  into  them,  a 
look  which  startled  her. 

"  Is  it  life  or  death  ?"  he  repeated. 

His  love  conquered.     "  Gerald,  it  is  life,"  she  said. 

Drunk  with  joy,  he  threw  his  arms  around  her  and 


26  THE  TALE  OF  A   SCULPTOR. 

kissed  her  until  the  bhishes  dyed  her  cheeks.  He 
staved  with  her  as  long  as  she  would  allow,  but  his  de- 
light was  too  delicious  to  permit  him  to  say  much 
about  his  plans  for  the  future.  When  at  last  she  made 
him  leave  her,  he  gave  her  the  number  of  a  studio  at 
Chelsea,  which  he  had  taken,  and  she  promised  to 
write  and  let  him  know  w^hen  he  might  call  again. 

They  parted.  Eugenia  walked  to  the  window,  and 
for  a  long  time  looked  out  on  the  gay  thoroughfare, 
now  full  of  carriages  going  to  and  returning  from  the 
park.  Of  course,  she  loved  Gerald  dearly ;  that  was 
now  bej^ond  a  doubt.  But  what  would  she  have  to  go 
through  when  the  engagement  was  announced  ?  what 
had  she  to  look  forward  to  as  his  wife?  Must  love 
and  worldly  misery  be  synonymous? 

The  current  of  her  thoughts  was  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  another  visitor  —  her  brother.  James 
Herbert  was  a  tall  young  man,  faultlessly  dressed,  and 
bearing  a  general  look  of  what  is  termed  high  breed- 
ing. He  bore  a  likeness  to  his  father,  but  the  likeness 
was  but  an  outward  one.  By  this  time  he  was  a  cold 
cynical  man  of  the  world.  He  had  not  lived  the  best 
of  lives,  but,  being  no  fool,  had  gained  experience  and 
caution.  He  was  clever  enough  to  study  human  nature 
with  a  view  of  turning  his  knowledge  to  account. 
Eugenia  had  some  pride  of  birth ;  her  brother  had,  or 
affected,  a  great  deal  more.  He  was  by  no  means  un- 
popular ;  few  men  could  make  themselves  more  agree- 
able and  fascinating  than  James  Herbert  when  it  was 
worth  his  while  to  be  so.  In  his  way  he  was  fond  of 
his  sister  ;  certainly  proud  of  her  beauty ;  and  she, 
who  knew  nothing  of  his  true  nature,  thought  him  as 
perfect  as  a  brother  can  be. 


THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR.  27 

He  kissed  her,  complimented  her  on  her  good  looks, 
then  sat  down  and  made  himself  pleasant.  She  an- 
swered his  remarks  somewhat  mechanically,  wonder- 
ing all  the  time  what  effect  her  news  would  have  upon 
liim.  She  hated  things  hanging  over  her  head,  and 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  tell  him  of  her  intentions,  if 
not  to-daj^  the  next  time  she  met  him. 

"The  lawyers  have  almost  settled  your  little  matter," 
he  said.  ''It's  lucky  for  you  I  made  up  my  mind  at 
once;  things  haven't  turned  out  so  well  as  we  ex- 
pected." 

She  thanked  him — not  effusively,  as  if  he  was  doing 
no  more  than  she  had  a  right  to  expect.  Yet  the 
thought  flashed  across  her  that  before  she  took  his 
bounty  she  was  by  honor  compelled  to  make  him  ac- 
quainted with  what  she  proposed  doing. 

*' By-the-bye,  Eugenia,"  said  Herbert,  "you  know 
Ralph  Norgate?" 

^'  Yes.  He  called  a  day  or  two  ago.  I  did  not  see 
him." 

"Well,  I  expect  he'll  soon  call  again.  He  has  been 
forcing  his  friendship  on  me  lately.  In  fact — I'd  bet- 
ter tell  you — his  mind  is  made  up — you  are  to  be  the 
future  Lady  Norgate.  Now  you  know  what  to  look 
forward  to." 

Her  face  flushed.     Her  troubles  were  beginning. 

"But,  James,"  she  stammered,  "I  was  just  going  to 
tell  you — I  am  already  engaged." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.  To  exj)ress  great  surprise 
ivas  aorainst  his  creed,  and  the  idea  that  Eno-enia  was 
capable  of  disgracing  herself  did  not  enter  his  head. 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  Norgate,"  he  said.  "Who 
is  the  happy  man  ?" 


28  THE  TALE   OF  A  SCULPTOR. 

"  You  will  be  angry,  very  angry,  I  fear."  She  spoke 
timidly.  His  manner  told  her  she  had  good  grounds 
for  fear.  His  mouth  hardened,  but  he  still  spoke  po- 
litely and  pleasantly. 

"  My  dear  girl,  don't  discount  my  displeasure ;  tell 
me  who  it  is?" 

"  His  name  is  Gerald  Leigh." 

"A  pretty  name,  and  one  which  sounds  familiar  to 
me.     Now,  who  is  Gerald  Leigh  ?" 

"  He  is  a  sculptor." 

"  Ah !  now  I  know.  Son  of  that  excellent  old  ten- 
ant of  my  father's.  The  genius  he  discovered  on  a 
dungheap.     Eugenia,  are  you  quite  mad  ?" 

"  He  will  be  a  famous  man  some  day." 

Herbert  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  peculiarly  irri- 
tating way. 

"  Let  him  be  as  famous  as  he  likes.  What  does  it 
matter  ?" 

'-  The  proudest  family  may  be  proud  of  allying  them- 
selves to  a  great  artist." 

Herl>ert  looked  at  his  sister  with  a  pitying  but 
amused  smile.  *'My  poor  girl,  don't  be  led  astray  by 
the  temporary  glorification  of  things  artistic.  When 
these  fellows  grow  talked  about  we  ask  them  to  our 
houses  and  make  much  of  them.  It's  the  fashion.  But 
we  don't  marry  them.  Indeed,  as  they  all  begin  in  the 
lower  ranks  of  life,  like  your  friend,  they  are  generally 
provided  with  wives  of  their  own  station,  who  stay  at 
home  and  trouble  no  one." 

She  winced  under  the  sting  of  his  scorn.  He  saw 
it,  and  knew  he  was  pursuing  the  right  treatment  for 
her  disease. 

"  Now,  this  young  Leigh,"  he  continued.     ^'  What 


THE   TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOR.  29 

will  he  be  for  years  and  years?  A  sort  of  superior 
stone-cutter.  He  will  make  wliat  living  he  can  by  go- 
ing about  and  doing  busts  of  mayors  and  mayoresses, 
and  other  people  of  that  class,  who  want  their  com- 
mon features  perpetuated.  Peihaps  lie  might  get  a 
job  on  a  tombstone  for  a  change.  Bah !  Of  course 
you  have  been  jesting  with  me,  Eugenia.  I  shall  tell 
Norgate  to  call  as  soon  as  possible." 

"I  shall  marry  Gerald  Leigh,"  said  Eugenia,  sul- 
lenly. All  the  same  the  busts  and  tombstones  weighed 
heavily  upon  her. 

"  That,"  said  her  brother,  rising,  and  still  speaking 
with  a  smile,  '•  I  am  not  the  least  afraid  of,  although 
you  are  of  age  and  mistress  of  two  thousand  pounds. 
You  are  not  cut  out  to  ornament  an  attic.  I  need 
not  say  I  must  countermand  that  settlement.  It  must 
wait  until  you  marry  J^orgate  or  some  other  suitable 
man." 

He  kissed  her  and  walked  carelessly  away.  To  all 
appearance  the  matter  did  not  cause  him  a  moment's 
anxiety.  He  was  a  clever  man,  and  flattered  himself 
he  knew  how  to  treat  Eugenia ;  human  nature  should 
be  assailed  at  its  w^eakest  points. 

His  carelessness  was,  of  course,  assumed  ;  for,  meet- 
ing Mrs.  Cathcart  as  she  drove  home,  Eugenia's  news 
was  sufficiently  disturbing  to  make  him  stop  the  car- 
riao^e,  seat  himself  beside  his  aunt,  and  bes^  her  to  take 
another  turn  in  the  park,  during  which  he  told  her 
what  had  transpired. 

They  were  fitting  coadjutors.  Mrs.  Cathcart  was 
delighted  to  hear  of  Sir  Ralph's  overtures,  and  was 
shocked  to  find  that  Eugenia  was  entangled  in  some 
low  attachment.     She  quite  agreed  that  the  girl  must 


30  THE  TALE  OF  A    SCULPTOR. 

be  led,  not  driven  ;  must  be  langlied,  not  talked,  out 
of  her  follj.  "Girls  nearly  always  make  fools  of 
themselves  once  in  their  lives,"  said  Mr.  Cathcart, 
cynically. 

"  They  do,"  said  James  Herbert,  who  knew  some- 
thing abont  the  sex.  "  All  the  same,  Engenia  shall 
not.  Find  out  all  about  the  fellow,  where  he  lives, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  She  doesn't  know  I've  told  you 
about  this.     Keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  any  letters." 

So  the  next  day,  when  Eugenia  and  her  aunt  were 
together,  the  latter,  a  skilled  domestic  diplomatist, 
commenced  operations  by  I'egretting  that  Mr.  Herbert, 
although  so  fond  of  statuary,  had  never  employed  a 
sculptor  to  make  his  own  bust.  Mrs.  Cathcart  spoke 
so  naturally  that  Eugenia  fell  into  the  trap,  and  in- 
formed her  that  Mr.  Herbert's  likeness  had  been  taken 
in  cla}'  two  years  ago  by  a  young  sculptor  then  staying 
at  Acton  Hall.  It  had  been  done  for  pleasure,  not 
profit,  but  her  father  had  always  intended  to  order  a 
copy  in  marble.  Mrs.  Cathcart  was  delighted.  Did 
Eugenia  know  where  the  young  man  could  be  found? 

Eugenia  did  know.  She  told  her  with  a  tinge  of 
color  on  her  cheeks,  and  took  advantage  of  the  oppor- 
tunity, and  perhaps  soothed  her  spirit  somewhat  by 
expatiating  on  what  a  great  man  her  lover  w^as  to 
become.  Mrs.  Cathcart,  in  return,  spoke  of  geniuses 
as  struggling,  poverty  stricken  persons,  to  befriend 
whom  was  the  one  great  wish  of  her  life.  It  was 
indeed  pleasant  for  Miss  Hei-bert  to  hear  her  aunt 
speak  of  her  lover  as  she  might  of  a  hard-working 
seamstress  or  deserving  laundress.  She  had  not  yet 
written  to  Gerald.     She  must  find  strength  to  throw 


THE  TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOR.  31 

off  her  brother's  scorn  and  the  busts  and  tombstones 
before  she  again  met  her  lover. 

Sir  Kalph  Norgate  called  that  morning.  He  was 
a  man  of  about  forty.  Not  ill-looking,  but  with  the 
unmistakable  appearance  of  one  who  had  led  a  hard 
life.  He  was  rich,  and  of  fine  old  family.  It  was 
clear  to  Mrs.  Cathcart  that  he  meant  business.  Eu- 
genia had  met  him  several  times  last  year,  and  it  was 
no  news  to  her  that  he  was  her  ardent  admirer.  She 
was  very  cold  towards  him  to-day,  but  Mrs.  Cathcart 
did  not  chide  her.  She,  clever  woman,  knew  that 
men  like  Norgate  value  a  prize  at  what  it  costs  them 
to  win  it.  So  the  baronet  came,  stayed  his  aj)pointed 
time,  then  went  away,  presumably  in  fair  train  to  a 
declarati^^ii  by  and  by. 


32  THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR. 


CHAPTEK  XIII. 

The  next  day,  whilst  driving  with  her  neice,  Mrs. 
Cathcart  was  seized  by  a  sudden  thought.  "  My  dear," 
she  said,  "  let  us  go  and  see  about  tliat  bust.  Where 
did  you  say  the  sculptor  man  was  to  be  found  ?  Nel- 
son Studios,  King's  Road.     What  number?" 

"No.  10,"  said  Eugenia,  wondering  if  her  aunt's 
sudden  resolve  would  be  productive  of  good  or  evil. 

The  carriage  went  to  Nelson  Studios ;  the  ladies  dis- 
mounted, and  Mrs.  Cathcart  tapped  at  the  door  of 
No.  10,  a  studio  which,  being  a  sculptor's,  was  of 
course  on  the  ground-floor. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  handsome  young  man 
whose  outside  garb  was  a  ragged  old  blouse,  and  whose 
hands  were  white  with  half-dried  clay — one  of  those 
hands,  moreover,  held  a  short  pipe.  Indeed,  Gerald 
Leigh  was  in  as  unpresentable  trim  as  when  years  ago 
lie  first  met  Miss  Herbert. 

He  did  not  at  once  see  the  girl.  She  was  behind 
Mrs.  Cathcart,  and  that  lady's  majestic  presence  ab- 
sorbed all  his  attention.  Mrs.  Cathcart  put  up  her 
eye-glass. 

"Is  your  master  in  ?"  she  asked. 

Gerald  laughed.     ''I  am  my  own  master,"  he  said. 

''This  is  Mr.  Leigh,  aunt,"  said  Eugenia,  coming 
forward. 

''  Oh !"  said  Mrs.  Cathcart,  and  the  palpable  mean- 
ing of  that  exclamatory  monosyllable  sent  the  blood 
to  Eugenia's  cheek. 

Gerald  started  as  he  heard  the  girl's  voice  and  recog- 


THE  TALE   OF  A  SCULPTOR.  33 

nized  her  in  tlie  shadow.  He  stretched  out  his  day- 
covered  hand,  then  withdrew  it  and  langhed.  Mrs. 
Cathcart,  who  saw  the  action,  put  on  a  look  of  supreme 
astonishment ;  then  she  recovered  herself. 

^'  Ob,  I  forgot,"  she  said  to  Eugenia.  "  Of  course, 
you  have  seen  Mr.  Leigh  before.  May  we  come  in, 
Mr.  Leigh  ?" 

He  moved  aside  and  the  ladies  entered  the  studio. 
He  placed  his  two  cbairs  at  their  disposal.  He  won- 
dered the  while  what  had  brought  Eugenia  to  him. 
He  gave  her  a  questioning  glance,  but  her  eyes  avoided 
his.  Then  Mrs.  Cathcart  began.  She  spoke  in  that 
manner  which  certain  persons  assume  towards  those 
whom  they  are  pleased  to  think  tlieir  inferiors. 

"I  believe,  some  time  ago,  you  made  a  bust  of  my 
late  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Herbert,  of  Coombe- Acton." 

Gerald  bowed. 

"  I  wish  to  have  a  copy  of  it.     Can  you  make  one  ?" 

''  Certainly.     In  marble  ?" 

"  Li  marble,  of  course.     How  much  will  it  cost  ?" 

It  was  a  painful  experience  to  Eugenia,  to  hear  her 
future  husband  talked  to  by  Mrs.  Cathcart  much  as 
that  lady  talked  to  the  obliging  young  men  and  women 
at  the  various  emporiums  which  enjoyed  her  patron- 
age. 

^'  Mr.  Herbert  was  ray  best  friend,"  said  Gerald. 
"  My  services  are  at  your  disposal." 

*'  You  do  not  understand  me,"  said  Mrs.  Cathcart, 
coldly.     "  I  asked  you  what  it  would  cost." 

Gerald  colored  and  glanced  at  Eugenia.     He  was  ut- 
terly puzzled.     It  could  only  have  been  through  the 
agency  of  the  girl  he  loved  that  this  new  patroness 
sought  him. 
3 


34  THE  TALE  OF  A   SCULPTOR. 

"  Mr.  Leigh  was  my  father's  friend,  aunt,"  said 
Eugenia. 

"  Mj  dear !  Mr.  Leigh  is  not  my  friend.  I  want  to 
know  his  terms  for  a  marble  bust." 

*'  Eighty  pounds,  madam,"  said  Gerald,  rather 
shortly. 

'*  Oh,  much  too  much  !  Eugenia,  do  you  not  think 
such  a  price  extortionate?" 

Eugenia  was  silent,  but  her  cheeks  burned.  Ger- 
ald's lip  quivered  with  anger.  Only  Mrs.  Cathcart 
was  calm.  "  I  will  pay  you  forty  pounds,"  she  said, 
"  but  then  it  must  be  approv^ed  by  a  competent  judge." 

"  You  have  heard  my  terms,  madam,"  said  Leigh 
(surtly. 

"Absurd!  I  will  even  say  fifty  pounds.  If  you 
like  to  take  that  you  may  call  upon  me.  Good-morn- 
ing.    Come,  Eugenia !" 

She  swept  out  of  the  studio.  Eugenia  followed 
her.  Slie  looked  back  and  saw  Gerald's  face  wearing 
an  expression  of  actual  pain.  For  a  moment  her  im- 
pulse was  to  run  back,  throw  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  defy  every  one.  However,  she  did  not  yield  to  it, 
but  followed  her  aunt  to  the  carriage. 

"  I  call  that  young  man  a  most  common,  ill-bred 
person,"  said  Mrs.  Cathcart. 

Eugenia  flushed.  *'He  is  not,"  she  said  hotly. 
"Your  manner  towards  him  must  have  been  most 
mortifying." 

"  My  dear  child !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cathcart,  in  in- 
nocent surprise,  "and  I  was  trying  to  befriend  the 
young  man  ?  He  presumes  on  his  acquaintance  with 
your  father.  I  always  told  your  poor  father  it  was  a 
mistake  becoming  intimate  with  persons  of  that  class." 


THE  TAlE  OF  A   SCtJLl>TOR.  36 

Eugenia  said  no  more.  If  she  had  thought  of  so 
doing  it  was  not  the  moment  to  open  her  heart  to  Mrs. 
Cathcart.  She  went  to  her  room  intending  to  write  to 
Gerald ;  but  no  letter  \/as  written  that  day.  How 
could  she  ask  him  to  call  at  her  aunt's  after  what 
had  occurred  ? 

"  I  love  him/'  she  said  to  herself,  "  but  I  am  not 
brave  enough  to  give  up  all  for  him.  Oh,  why  did 
we  ever  meet  V 

The  next  morning  she  received  a  letter  from  Gerald. 
It  contained  no  reproach — only  an  entreaty  that  she 
would  name  c.  time  when  he  might  ceo  her.  Mrs. 
Cathcart  was  true  to  her  duty.  Before  James  Her- 
bert was  out  of  bed  she  had  sent  him  word  that  a 
letter  had  come  for  Eugenia.  He  went  at  once  to  hi? 
sister.     His  greeting  was  quite  friendly. 

"Eugenia,"  lio  said  presently,  "of  course  by  now 
you  have  put  all  that  nonsense  about  that  sculptor- 
fellow  out  of  your  pretty  head  ?" 

"  It  is  no  nonsense." 

"  "Well,  if  you  mean  to  be  obstinate  I  must  inter- 
fere.    Have  you  seen  him  since  ?" 

"  Aunt  went  to  his  studio.     I  was  with  her." 

"  She  ought  to  have  known  better.  If  she  encoup 
ages  you  we  shall  quarrel.  Do  you  correspond  ?  Tell 
me  the  truth." 

She  offered  him  Gerald's  letter.  He  waved  it  aside 
as  a  thing  beneath  his  notice. 

"  Have  yo«  answered  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  yet.     I  am  just  going  to." 

Her  brother  still  remained  calm  and  polite,  with 
that  contemptuous,  incredulous  smile  playing  round 
his  lips. 


86  THE  TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOR. 

"  If  you  will  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  1  can't  stop 
you.  If  you,  with  your  beauty  and  position,  choose  to 
go  and  live  in  a  garret,  you  must  do  so.  Still,  as  your 
br^)ther,  I  have  certain  responsibilities  which  would 
still  be  mine  were  your  lover  the  highest  in  the  land. 
I  must  make  inquiries  as  to  his  character  and  moral 
worth — these  fellows  are  generally  a  loose  lot." 

"  You  may  make  what  inquiries  you  choose." 

"  Thank  you.  Kow  one  favor — a  command,  the  last 
I  shall  ask  or  give.  You  will  not  answer  this  letter — 
you  will  not  see  the  man — until  I  have  satisfied  myself 
on  these  points.     It  is  not  too  nmch  to  ask,  Eugenia." 

She  felt  the  justice  of  his  remarks — could  it  be  she 
was  weak  enough  to  be  glad  of  a  little  delay  and 
breathing  space  ?  But  Gerald's  face,  as  last  she  saw 
it,  rose  before  he^. 

'^  You  must  name  a  time,''  she  said. 

''  So  impatient  for  true  love  and  social  extinction," 
sneered  Herbert.  "  Surely  yon  can  restrain  yourself 
until  this  day  week." 

It  was  longer  than  she  had  meant.  But  her  bro- 
ther's bitter  sneers  settled  it.  "  So  be  it,"  she  said, 
"  until  this  day  week." 

The  promise  given  James  Herbert  dismissed  the 
matter,  but  he  filled  up  the  next  half-hour  with  the 
very  cream  of  society  gossip,  which  was  undoubtedly 
as  palatable  to  Eugenia  as  it  would  have  been  to  any 
other  woman.  James  Herbert  lived  within  the  inner 
circle,  and  as  to-day,  for  purposes  of  his  own,  he  spoke 
to  Eugenia  as  if  she  were  one  of  the  initiated ;  his  con- 
versation was  not  without  charm. 

He  was  clever  to  know  when  to  trust.  He  had  not 
the  slightest  fear  that  Eugenia  would  break  her  prp- 


THE  TALE   OF  A  SCULPTOE.  37 

mise.  So  he  cautioned  Mrs.  Cathcart  to  keep  the 
little  fool  well  within  sight,  and  thns  avoid  danger  of 
a  chance  meeting ;  to  order  the  servants  to  refuse  the 
sculptor  admission  if  he  ventured  to  call — and  above 
all  to  be  sure  that  l^orgate  had  every  opportunity  of 
pressing  his  suit.  After  this  he  waited  calmly,  and  did 
nothing  more  in  the  matter  for  six  whole  days. 

Days  during  which  Gerald  Leigh  chafed  and  fretted. 
He  refused  to  doubt,  but  his  heart  grew  heavy  within 
him.  He  felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Cathcart's  visit  boded  no 
good.  Ht  last  he  could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer. 
He  called  and  asked  for  Eugenia.  She  was  out.  He 
called  ao^ain — the  same  result.  He  went  back  to  his 
studio  and  tried  to  conquer  his  growing  uneasiness  by 
hard  w^ork.  One  morning  a  gentleman  called  and 
introduced  himself  as  James  Herbert. 

Gerald  received  him  courteously,  Herbert  was 
suave,  smiling  and  bland.  He  spoke  of  the  interest 
he  felt  in  the  young  sculptor  for  his  father,  Mr. 
Herbert's  sake.  He  admired  some  embryo  designs, 
and  wished  and  prophesied  all  success.  Then,  as 
Gerald  began  to  hope  that  Eugenia's  brother  might 
some  day  be  his  friend,  he  turned  upon  him  and  tore 
him  to  pieces. 

"  But,  after  all,  Mr.  Leigh,  my  great  object  in  calling 
concerns  my  sister." 

Gerald  grew  very  pale. 

"  She  is  a  good  girl,  but  weak.  She  has  confessed 
to  me  that  some  sort  of  romantic  nonsense  had  passed 
between  you." 

"  She  has  vowed  to  be  my  wife — no  more,  no  less." 

His  impetuosity  seemed  to  amuse  Herbert.  "  I  am 
afraid  such   a  thing  is    an  impossibility,"    he  said 


38  THE  TALE   OF   A   SCTTLPTOR. 

serenely.  "  I  shall  not  insult  jou  by  telling  you  she  is 
all  but  penniless — geniuses,  I  know,  never  think  of 
money — but  I  fear  I  must  pain  you  by  saying  she 
repents  of  her  hasty  words." 

"  That,"  said  Gerald  slowly,  yet  fiercely,  "  is  a  lie." 

"  My  good  sir,  I  cannot  allovr  you  to  use  such  words. 
My  temper  is  fair,  but  it  has  its  limits." 

"I  apologize,"  said  Gerald  sullenly.  "I  should 
have  said  you  wore  coercing  her." 

"I  never  coerced  any  one  in  my  life ;  much  less  my 
sister.  Naturally,  1  shall  object  to  her  marriage  with 
you;  but  that  makes  no  difference." 

"Tell  me  what  you  have  to  tell,"  said  Gerald 
nervously.  Ho  hated  and  feared  this  smooth,  smiling 
man. 

"  In  a  few  words,  then,  my  sister  is  unhappy  and 
unsettled.  For  several  da3^G  sho  has  been  trying  to 
answer  a  letter  you  sent  her.  At  last  she  confided  all 
to  me.  I  am  sure  I  am  not  going  too  far  when  I  say 
she  would  be  glad  to  think  that  all  boy  and  girl 
promises  between  you    /ere  forgotten." 

"Slic  sent  you  to  tell  me  this?"  asked  Gerald 
hoarsely. 

"No.  She  knew  I  was  coming.  I  am  putting  her 
thoughts  in  my  own  words." 

"I  don't  expect  you  to  understand  what  my  love  for 
your  sister  means;  3T)u  could  not,"  said  Gerald.  "But 
you  know  she  has  vowed  to  be  my  wife." 

"Yes;  and  will  keep  her  promise  if  you  insist  upon 
it."  The  emphasis  Herbert  laid  on  insist  made 
Gerald  o  heai't  sick. 

He  said  nothing;  but,  with  a  strange  smile  on  his 
white  face,  he  went  to  a  table  and  wrote  a  few  words. 


THE  TALE  OF  A   SCULPTOE.  39 

He  handed  the  paper  to  his  visitor.  "  Read,"  he 
said  ;  "  you  say  you  are  her  messenger ;  now  you  can 
be  mine."     The  words  were ; 

"Eugenia:  If  this  is  unanswered  I  shall  believe 
you  wish  to  recall  everything  that  has  passed  between 
us." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Herbert.  "  This  is  all  I  could 
expect." 

With  trembling  hands  the  sculptor  placed  the  paper 
in  an  envelope,  and  once  more  tendered  it  to  Herbert. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Herbert.  "  People  have 
been  tempted  to  suppress  letters  before  now.  Post  it 
in  the  ordinary  w^ay." 

Gerald  left  the  room.  He  returned  in  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  Herbert  knew  that  the  letter  had  been 
posted.  He  had  nothing  further  to  do  with  Gerald, 
so  held  out  his  hand  affably. 

"  No,"  said  Gerald,  "  I  would  rather  not."  His  eyes 
were  gleaming  strangely. 

"  As  you  will,"  said  Herbert  with  indifference. 

"I  will  change  my  mind,"  said  Gerald  in  a  low 
voice,  and  taking  the  other's  hand  ;  "  condemned  peo- 
ple always  shake  hands  with  the  hangman,  I  think." 

He  spoke  with  a  ghastly  attempt  at  mirth.  Herbert 
left  the  studio  without  another  word,  but,  as  he  drove 
to  Mrs.  Cathcart's,  said  to  himself,  "The  sooner  that 
beggar  shoots  or  hangs  himself  the  belter." 

He  went  straight  to  his  sister.  He  placed  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  and,  with  a  look  she  had  never  yet 
seen  on  his  face,  said  in  a  cold,  contemptuous  manner : 

"Eugenia,  I  have  been  taking  some  trouble  on  your 
behalf.  To-day  two  things  are  going  to  happen  which 
will  settle  your  future.  Norgate  will  be  here  presently 


40  THE  TALE   OF  A  SCULPTOR. 

and  ask  you  to  be  his  wife.  By  tlie  next  post  you  will 
get  a  letter  from  that  stone-cntter.  Before  you  answer 
it,  shut  yourself  up  and  think  until  you  are  in  a  proper 
frame  of  mind.  Women  are  fools,  but  surely  you 
can't  be  the  biecS'est  amono^  tliem." 

DO  O 

"You  have  seen  him?"  asked  Eugenia  faintly. 

"  Yes.    An  extremely  nice  young  man — in  his  place." 

"  Was  he  well  ?" 

"Yery  well,  and  very  comfortable.  My  dear  girl, 
he  quite  won  my  respect  —  a  thorouglily  practical 
young  man,  with  lots  of  common-sense.  Now  good- 
bye.    Don't  make  any  mistake." 

Did  she  hear  aright?  Her  brother  found  Gerald  a 
thoroughly  practical  young  man !  The  lie  was  so  gi- 
gantic that  it  seemed  impossible  it  could  be  all  a  lie. 
She  was  revolving  it  in  her  mind  even  when  Sir  Ralph 
Norgate  was  announced. 

As  for  the  practical  young  man,  he  had  locked  his 
door,  and  thrown  himself  on  the  ground.  James 
Herbert's  words  had  impressed  him,  and  perhaps  his 
faith  in  Eugenia's  faith  was  not  so  great  as  he  fancied. 
To-morrow  he  would  know  the  verdict.  He  felt  sure 
that  if  liis  letter  remained  unanswered  for  twenty-four 
hours  James  Herbert  had  spoken  the  truth. 

Miss  Herbert  found  her  brother  a  true  prophet. 
Sir  Ralph  ISTorgate  offered  his  hand,  and  when  the 
offer  was  refused,  told  her  he  did  not  mean  to  accept 
her  answer  as  final.  She  did  not,  on  her  part,  say  any- 
thing about  her  love  being  given  elsewhere.  Then 
Gerald's  letter  came,  and  following  her  brother's  ad- 
vice she  did  think  everything  over ;  she  sat  for  hours 
trying  to  nerve  herself  to  answer  the  letter  as  love  and 
faith  demanded. 


THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR.  41 

She  loved  him.  Had  he  been  present  her  indeci- 
sion would  soon  have  vanished  ;  but,  as  it  was,  she  could 
reflect  f ullj  on  what  an  answer  to  his  letter  must  mean 
— alienation  of  all  her  friends — an  end  of  social  ambi- 
tion— many  years,  if  not  a  life,  of  poverty.  Eugenia 
shuddered  as  she  thought  of  the  consequences,  and 
wished  that  she  and  Gerald  had  never  met.  She 
wished  moreover,  that  the  temptations  of  rank  and 
wealth  held  out  by  her  other  suitor  were  less. 

What  would  Gerald  do  if  his  letter  was  not  an- 
swered ?  If  she  could  but  persuade  herself  that  her 
brother's  estimate  of  his  character  was  the  right  one ! 
Possibly  it  might  be  ;  James  knew  mankind  well.  If 
she  could  but  think  so — could  believe  that  Gerald 
would  forget — she  might  then  find  it  easier  to  be  wise, 
and,  by  taking  him  at  his  word,  save  herself  and  per- 
haps him  from  what  must  insure  unhappiness. 

So  she  reasoned — so  she  excused  her  half-meditated 
treason — so  she  persuaded  herself  it  would  eventually 
be  better  for  both  if  they  parted.  Yet  all  the 
while  she  knew  she  loved  Gerald  Leigh  as  she  could 
love  no  other  man.  In  this  mental  conflict  the  day 
passed  and  night  found  the  letter  unanswered.  Then 
James  Herbert  came  to  her. 

"  Eugenia,  have  you  replied  to  that  letter  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  he  said. 

She  did  so.  It  was  a  relief  to  get  rid  of  it.  He 
tore  it  into  fragments. 

"  There,"  he  said.  "  I  knew  I  could  trust  your  good 
sense.  There  is  an  end  of  the  affair.  It  is  a  secret 
between  you  and  me,  and  I  shall  never  again  allude 
to  it." 


42  THE  TALE   OF  A   SCTJLPTOR. 

For  good  or  ill  the  die  was  cast.  She  had  freed  her- 
Belf.  But  she  had  left  the  room  with  swimming  eyes, 
and  went  to  Mrs.  Cathcart. 

"  Annt,"  she  cried,  "  will  jou  take  me  abroad — for  a 
long  tinje  ?" 

It  was  hard  for  Mrs.  Cathcart  to  be  called  npon  to 
give  np  the  rest  of  the  London  season.  But  then  Mr. 
Herbert's  recent  death  prevented  her  going  ont  mnch, 
and  it  was  paramount  that  Eugenia's  future  should  be 
satisfactorily  disposed  of.  So  the  excellent  woman 
sacriliced  herself  at  once. 

"  I  will  take  you  abroad,  Eugenia,  if  you  will  prom- 
to  be  Sir  Balph's  wife." 

Eugenia  had  chosen  her  own  path,  and  knew  where 
it  would  lead  ;  yet  for  very  shame  she  would  not  show 
her  thoughts  to  others. 

''  I  can  promise  nothing,"  she  said.  "  Take  me 
away." 

Three  days  afterward,  Gerald  Leigh  learned  that 
Eugenia  had  gone  abroad  with  her  aunt. 

Although  in  his  studio  all  day  long,  the  sculptor  did 
no  work  for  weeks  ;  at  last  lie  aroused  himself,  engaged 
a  model  and  set  to  work  with  feverish  energy.  From 
morn  to  night  he  thumbed  and  pushed  about  the  duc- 
tile clay.  He  laughed  in  a  sort  of  bitter  triumph.  His 
hands  had  not  lost  their  cunning.  The  work  grew  and 
grew  apace  until  the  clay  was  done  with,  and  a  fair 
white  block  of  marble  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  studio 
waiting  to  be  hewn  into  the  statue  which  was  to  be 
Gerald  Leigh's  first  high  bid  for  fame. 


THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOE.  43 


CHAPTER  lY. 

It  was  early  in  May.  The  Academy  had  been  open 
about  a  week,  lorii^  enough  for  the  newspaper  critics 
to  tell  the  public  what  it  ought  to  admire,  Strange  to 
say,  this  year  the  O'itics  were  unanimous  in  bestowing 
their  hiij:hest  praises  on  a  j)iece  of  statuary,  and  a  great 
future  for  the  sculptor  was  predicted. 

No.  1460  in  the  catalogue  appealed  to  no  one  by 
cheap  sentiment  or  sensational  ri'eatment.  It  was  but 
the  lightly-draped  figure  of  a  beautiful  girl  ;  one  in  the 
first  flu.sh  of  womanhood.  She  was  in  the  act  of  step- 
ping hastily  forward.  Her  arms  were  extended  as  if 
to  welcome,  perhaps  embrace,  some  one  who  was  com- 
ino-  towards  her.  Hei*  face  bore  a  smile  of  easier  de- 
light.  The  grace,  the  likeness,  the  life  of  the  figure 
arrested  each  passer  by.  The  fall  of  the  drapery,  the 
position  of  each  well-rounded  limb,  conveyed  the  idea 
of  rapid  motion.  It  was  indeed  hard  to  believe  that 
she  was  doomed  to  remain  forever  in  one  fixed  at- 
titude. Tiie  stock  remark  of  the  spectators  was  that 
in  a  minute  they  expected  to  see  her  at  the  other  side 
of  the  room. 

This  statute  bore  no  distinguishing  title,  but  those 
persons  who  turned  to  their  catalogues  found,  under  the 
number  and  the  artist's  name,  a  few  words  of  poetry : 

"Her  liands  outstretched 
To  greet  the  new  love;  whilst  her  feet 
Tread,  scornful,  on  the  old  love's  gifts." 

After  reading   this   one   turned,  of  course,  to  her 


44  THE  TALE   OF  A  SCULPTOR. 

feet,  and  found  that  one  of  them  was  treading  on  flow- 
ers— roses  and  large  star-shaped  blossoms. 

Several  people,  whilst  admiring  the  statue,  fancied 
they  had  somewhere  seen  the  original  of  that  beautiful 
face;  but,  save  the  sculptor,  only  one,  James  Herbert, 
knew  the  truth.  He  cursed  Leigh's  impertinence,  but 
was  too  wise  to  take  any  notice  of  it.  Yet  he  deter- 
mined to  keep  Eugenia  from  the  Academy,  if  possi- 
ble. 

She  was  in  town,  and  in  a  week's  time  was  to  be 
married  to  Sir  Ealph.  Two  months  after  Mrs.  Cath- 
cart  had  taken  her  niece  abroad,  the  baronet  joined 
them,  and  renewed  his  proposals ;  this  time  with  suc- 
cess. The  girl  stipulated  that  the  marriage  should  not 
take  place  until  the  spring.  The  truth  is  she  wanted 
some  months'  delay  in  order  to  get  rid  of  the  memories 
of  Gerald  Leigh,  and  by  the  time  she  returned  to  Eng- 
land flattered  herself  she  had  successfully  completed 
the  operation. 

She  had  in  the  last  few  days  heard  some  talk  about 
the  statue,  but  had  steadfastly  kept  her  eyes  from  the 
art  criticisms,  fearing  to  see  Gerald's  name.  Is^ever- 
theless,  she  wished  to  visit  the  Academy,  and  was 
surprised  when  James  Herbert,  now  amiability  itself, 
refused  to  take  her  there. 

"  You  mustn't  go  this  year,"  he  said ;  "  that  fellow's 
statute  is  creating  quite  a  furore." 

"Well,  what  of  that !"  asked  Eugenia,  coldly. 

"  He  has  had  bad  taste  enough  to  represent  you.  The 
likeness  is  unmistakable.  It  is  a  maudlin  thing — a 
girl  deserting  her  old  love,  or  some  such  nonsense. 
Still,  you'd  better  not  go." 

Eugenia  said  no  more,  but  all  day  long  she  was 


THE  TALE  OF  A   SCULPTOR.  45 

thinking  of  her  brother's  words,  and  longing  to  see 
what  Gerald  had  wrought.  That  evening  she  dined 
out.  At  the  table  were  several  persons  who  worship- 
ped art,  and  Eugenia's  cheek  burned  as  she  heard  the 
praise  bestowed  on  the  new  sculptor  and  the  great  fu- 
ture prophesied  for  him.  Had  she,  after  all,  been 
wrong  ?  Would  it  not  have  been  better  to  have  fol- 
lowed the  mandates  of  her  heart?  Had  she  not  been 
weak  and  mercenary  ?  'No  matter ;  it  was  too  late  now 
to  repent.  Poor  Gerald  !  She  must  see  this  wonder- 
ful image  of  herself. 

Early  next  morning  she  went  alone  to  Burlington 
House.  Unlike  others,  she  knew  the  meaning  of  the 
statue,  knew  the  mute  reproach  it  conveyed,  knew  why 
the  marble  foot  trod  down  those  particular  flowers. 
She  had  never  told  him  the  fate  of  his  boyish  gift;  but 
Gerald  had  often  and  often  recalled  his  first  meeting 
with  her.  Eugenia's  heart  swelled  as  she  remembered 
his  brave  words  and  confidence  in  himself — how  sure 
he  felt  of  success.  He  had,  indeed,  succeeded,  but  the 
first  great  work  from  his  hands  was  a  memento  of  his 
love  for  a  faithless  woman — herself. 

Two  gentlemen  were  at  her  side.  They  were  talk- 
ing of  the  work  and  the  sculptor.  One  of  them  she 
knew.  He  was  a  lord,  famous  for  his  love  of  art  and 
encouragement  of  rising  artists. 

"  I  tried  to  buy  it,"  he  said,  "  but  found  it  was  not 
for  sale." 

"Commercially  speaking,"  said  his  companion,  "it 
as  well  you  cannot  buy  it." 

"  Why  ?  The  man  must  go  to  the  top  of  his  pro- 
fession." 

"  I  think  not.     Indeed,  my  belief  is  he  will  do  little 


46  THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR. 

more.  I  have  inquired  about  liim.  He  does  not  live 
the  I'fe  a  genius  must  live  in  these  days  if  he  wants 
to  succeed." 

"I   am    sorry  to   hear   it,"  said  Lord ,  moving 

away. 

Miss  Herbert  left  the  Academy  with  an  echo  of 
Genild's  exti-avagant  statement  that  life  or  death  hung 
upon  her  love  sounding  in  her  ears.  The  conversation 
she  had  overheard  distressed  her  ofi'eatlv.  The  thono-lit 
that  her  trenchery  had  ruined  a  life  full  of  promise 
would  not  be  dismissed.  She  spent  a  most  miser;d)le 
day,  and  its  misery  was  not  diminished  by  the  truth, 
whicli  she  could  no  longer  conceal  from  herself,  that 
she  still  loved  Gerald.  She  loved  him  more  than  ever. 
Too  late !  too  late !  And  Eugenia  Herbert  wept,  as 
many  others  have  wept^  that  the  past  could  not  be  un- 
done. 

Sir  Ealph  T^orgate  and  James  Herbert  dined  that 
evening  at  Mrs.  Cathcart's.  Their  society  wns  little 
comfort  to  Eugenia.  She  felt  now  that  she  hated  her 
lover — hated  his  polite,  hollow  society  ways  and  ex- 
pressions—  hated  that  hlase  look  which  so  often  settled 
on  his  face.  She  had  never  cared  for  him.  Their 
love-mnking  had  l)een  of  a  frigid  kind — not,  be  it  said, 
by  Sir  Ralph's  wish.  He  was  proud  of,  and  perhaps 
really  fond  of,  the  beautiful  girl  he  had  bought;  so  it 
was  scarcely  fair  that  Eugenia  should  compare  his 
polite  wooing  with  that  of  the  impassioned  boy's, 
which  recked  no  obstacles — heeded  no  consequences. 

Her  bitter  thoughts  made  it  impossible  for  her  to 
sit  out  the  dinner.  Yery  soon  she  pleaded  lieadache 
and  went  to  her  own  room  to  resume  her  self-revilings. 
She  made  no  further  attempt  to  banish  Gerald  from 


THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR.  47 

her  thoughts.  Slie  lived  again  every  moment  she  had 
Bpent  in  liis  company — heard  again  every  word  of  wild 
love — felt  his  hand  close  on  liei-s — his  lips  press  her 
own — and  shuddered  as  the  dismal  words ''Life  or 
death,"  seemed  echoing  through  her  ears.  If  she 
could  hut  undo  the  past! 

Why  not  I  The  thought  rushed  through  her.  "What 
hindered  her  save  the  false  gods  to  whom  she  had 
bent?  She  was  still  legally  free.  Gerald  was  in  the 
same  town.  Why  should  she  heed  her  fi-iends?  Why 
trouble  as  to  what  people  would  think  or  say  ?  By  one 
bold  step  she  could  write  everything.  If  to-mon-ow — 
nay,  this  very  hour — she  went  to  Gerald  and  bade  him 
take  her  and  hold  her  against  all,  she  knew  he  would 
do  so.  He  would  forgive.  To  him  her  action  would 
not  seem  bold  or  umnaidenly.  In  his  eyes  she  would 
rank  as  high  as  ever;  and  what  niattei-ed  the  rest? 
To-morrow  they  might  be  miles  away,  and  the  bliss  of 
being  Gerald's  wife  might  well  compensate  for  what 
people  would  say  about  her  conduct.  She  herself 
could  forget  all,  save  that  she  was  now  bound  forever 
to  the  man  she  loved ! 

She  would  do  it.  With  feverish  impatience  she 
threw  off  her  rich  dress  and  wrapped  herself  in  a  plain 
cloak.  She  put  on  the  quietest  hat  she  could  find,  stole 
down  stairs,  and  was  out  of  the  house  before  second 
thoughts  had  time  to  bring  irresolution.  Her  heart 
beat  wildly.  She  hailed  a  cab  and  was  driven  to 
]Selson  Studios.  On  the  way  she  remembered  it  was 
an  unlikely  hour  to  find  an  artist  in  his  studio,  but, 
nevertheless,  now  she  had  set  out,  resolved  to  complete 
her  journey. 

She  walked  quickly  to  Gerald's  door.     She  knocked 


48  THE  TALE   OE   A   SCULPTOR. 

softly,  but  met  with  no  response.  Slie  dared  not  wait 
longer  outside.  The  pictured  consequences  of  her  rash 
act  were  assuming  tremendous  proportions  in  her  brain. 
Another  minute's  delay  and  she  must  leave  the  spot 
never  to  return.  She  turned  the  handle  of  the  door 
and  entered  the  room. 

Now,  Miss  Herbert's  half-formed  plan  of  action 
when  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  her  ill- 
treated  lover,  had  been  something  like  this — she  would 
walk  up  to  him  and  simply  say,  ''Gerald,  I  am  come." 
The  rest  must  be  left  to  him,  but  she  believed,  in  spite 
of  her  weakness  and  treachery,  he  would  freely  forgive 
her  all. 

Gerald  was  not  in  the  studio.  The  gas  was  half- 
turned  down,  and  the  clay  casts  on  the  wall  looked 
grim  and  spectral.  But,  if  Gerald  was  not  in  the 
room  it  was  still  inhabited.  On  a  low  couch — a  couch 
covered  by  a  rich  Oriental  rug — lay  a  woman,  fast 
asleep. 

She  crept  across  the  room  and  gazed  on  the  sleeper. 
Even  by  the  dim  gas-ligljt  she  knew  that  she  gazed  on 
beauty  before  which  lier  own  must  pale.  The  woman 
might  have  been  some  five  years  older  than  herself,  and 
those  wonderful  charms  were  at  their  zenith.  The 
rich,  cle>r,  warm  color  on  the  cheek,  the  long  black 
lashes,  Ihe  arched  and  perfect  eyebrows,  told  of 
Southern  lands.  The  full,  voluptuous  figure,  the 
shapely,  rounded  arms,  the  red  lips,  the  soft  creamy 
neck — before  these  the  heart  of  man  would  run  as  wax 
before  a  fire.  Eugynia,  seeking  hei*  lover,  found  this 
woman  in  her  stead. 

A  bitter,  scornful  smile  played  on  Miss  Herbert's 
lips  as  she  '//jkj3  at  tla©  sleeper.     Somehow  that  oval, 


THE  TALE   OF  A  SCULPTOR.  49 

sunny  face  seemed  familiar  to  her.  Well  might  it  be. 
In  London,  Paris,  everywhere,  she  had  seen  it  in  the 
shop  windows.  There  were  few  people  in  France  or 
England  who  had  not  heard  the  name  of  Mile.  Carlotta, 
singer,  dancer,  darling  of  opera-bouffe,  whose  advent- 
ures and  amours  were  notorious,  who  had  ruined  more 
men  than  she  could  count  on  the  fino;ers  of  her  fair 
hands. 

Eugenia  recognized  her,  and  her  smile  of  scorn 
deepened.  The  sight  of  a  half-emptied  champagne 
bottle  close  to  the  sleeper,  a  half-smoked  cigarette 
lying  on  the  floor  just  as  it  had  fallen  from  her  fingers, 
added  nothing  to  the  contempt  Miss  Herbert's  smile 
expressed.  Gathering  her  skirts  together  to  avoid  any 
chance  of  contamination  b}^  touch,  she  was  preparing 
to  leave  the  studio  as  noiselessly  as  she  had  entered  it, 
when  suddenly  the  sleeper  awoke. 

Awoke  Avithout  any  w^arning.  Simply  opened  her 
splendid  dark  eyes,  stared  for  half  a  second,  then,  with 
wonderful  lightness  and  agility,  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"' Que  faites  vous  laf  Why  are  you  here?"  she 
cried. 

Without  a  word  Eugenia  moved  towards  the  door. 
Mile.  Carlotta  was  before  her.  She  turned  the  key 
and  placed  her  back  against  the  door. 

''' Doucement !  doucement!  ma  helle^'^  she  said. 
"Permit  me  to  know  who  honors  me  with  a  visit?" 

"  I  wished  to  see  Mr.  Leigh.  I  suppose  he  is  out. 
Be  good  enough  to  let  me  pass." 

"  Are  you  a  model,  then  ?  But  no  ;  models  look  not 
as  you  look." 

"  I  am  not  a  model." 

"  Not !  fi  done !  You  are,  perhaps,  one  of  those 
4 


60  THE  TALE   OF   A   SCULPTOR. 

yoimg  misses  who  write  Geraldo  letters  of  love.  A  la 
honne  heure  !     I  wish  to  see  one  of  them — 7aoiP 

With  a  saucy  smile  Carlotta  pocketed  the  key, 
turned  up  the  gas,  and  commenced  a  cool  scrutiny  of 
her  prisoner.     Eugenia  blushed  crimson. 

"  Qui  votes  etes  helle^  ma  chere — helle  mais  hlonde, 
and  Geraldo,  he  loves  not  the  blonde." 

"  Let  me  pass !"  said  Eugenia,  stamping  her  foot. 

Her  tormentor  laughed,  but  not  ill-temperedly. 

"He  will  soon  be  here,"  she  said  mockingly. 
"Surely  Mademoiselle  will  wait.  He  will  be  en- 
chanted to  see  one  of  the  young  misses." 

Mile.  Carlotta,  when  not  injured,  was  not  vindic- 
tive or  unkindly;  but  she  was  as  mischievous  as  a 
monkey.  ISTo  doubt,  having  teased  the  girl  to  her 
satisfaction,  she  would  have  soon  released  her,  but  it 
happened  that  Eugenia  turned  her  head,  and  for  the  first 
time  the  light  shone  full  upon  her  face.  Her  gaoler 
started.  She  sprang  towards  her,  seized  her  arm  and 
dragged  her  across  the  room.  Still  holding  her  cap- 
tive, she  tore  down  a  sheet  and  revealed  the  clay  model 
of  the  statue  which  had  made  Gerald  famous.  She 
looked  from  the  lifeless  to  the  living  face  then  burst 
into  a  peal  of  derisive  laughter.  Eugenia's  secret  was 
discovered. 

"Ha !  ha!  ha!  The  young  miss  that  Geraldo  loved. 
The  one  who  threw  him  away  for  a  rich  lover!  Yet, 
she  wishes  to  see  him  again — so  at  night  she  comes. 
Ah,  Mademoiselle,  you  have  w-r-r-recked  him,  c-r-r- 
rushed  him,  r-r-ruined  him,  still  would  see  him.  Good  ; 
good!  it  is  now  his  turn.  My  Gerald  shall  have 
revenge — revenge ! " 

Eugenia,  thoroughly  aBousftdi  commanded  her  to  let 


THE  TALE   OF  A  SCULPTOR.  51 

her  go.  Carlotta  langlied  in  her  face,  was  even  ill-bred 
enough  to  snap  her  lingers  and  poke  out  her  tongue  at 
her  prisoner.  Eugenia  humbled  herself,  and  implored 
her  by  their  common  womanhood.  Carlotta  laughed 
the  louder.  Eugenia  appealed  to  her  venality,  and  tried 
to  bribe  her.  Carlotta  lowered  her  black  eyebrows  and 
scowled,  but  laughed  louder  than  ever.  "  He  will  conje 
very  soon,"  was  all  she  said.  "He  will  not  stop  long 
away  from  me — Carlotta." 

Miss  Herbert  was  at  her  wit's  end.  Yet,  even  through 
the  shame  of  the  situation,  the  angui&h  of  her  heart 
made  itself  felt.  After  having  wrought  herself  up  to 
make  such  a  sacrifice,  such  an  atonement,  it  was  piti- 
able to  find  Gerald  no  better  than  the  rest  of  his  sex! 
She  sat  upon  a  chair  longing  for  release,  yet  dreading 
to  hear  the  step  which  would  hei-ald  it. 

Half  an  hour  passed.  JVIlle.  Carhjtta  whiled  it  away 
byemptying  a  glassof  champagne,  smoking  a  cigarette, 
and  making  comments  upon  GerahTs  prolonged  ab- 
sence. Presently  she  cried.  ''Ali,  Mademoiselle,  this 
is  dull  for  you  ;  see.  I  will  dance  to  yon."  ;ind  there- 
with she  raised  herself  on  her  toes  and  went  pirouetting 
round  her  captive,  humming  the  while  an  aii-  of  Offen- 
bach's. Her  dress  was  long,  hnt  she  in-  nii^e'i  it  with 
marvellous  skill,  and  Eugenia,  whilst  loathing,  could  not 
help  watching  her  with  a  sort  of  fascination.  She  was 
as  agile  as  a  panther;  every  attitude  was  full  of  gi'aee, 
everv  (gesture  alluidno;. 

Su<ldenly  she  stopped  slioi-t.  Flei  gi'eist  eyes  sparkled 
even  more  bi'ighrly.  S.ie  glanced  at  her  vieiim.  *'  Hi>t  !"* 
she  said.    ''1  hear  him.    1  know  his  step,     lie  eonies!" 

A  moment  afterwards  tiie  dooi-  was  tried.  Eugenia 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.     She  knew  not  what 


62  THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR. 

the  woman  meant  to  do  or  say,  but  she  felt  that  her 
crownins:  shame  was  at  hand.  Yet  her  heart  beat  at  the 
thought  of  seeing  Gerald  once  more,  and  a  wild  idea  ot 
forgiveness  on  either  side  passed  through  her. 

Mile.  Carlotta  turned  down  the  gas,  unlocked  the 
door,  and,  as  it  opened,  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of 
the  new-comer.  Eugenia  heard  the  sound  of  kisses 
given  and  returned,  and  her  heart  grew  like  stone. 

''  Geraldo,  7non  ami^^''  she  heard  the  dancer  say  in 
passionate  tones,  '^  dis  moi,  que  tu  m^aimes — que  tu 
TrCaimes  toujours .'" 

'^  Je  f  adore  ma  helle — tu  es  ramssanteP'^ 

"  Tell  me  in  your  own  dear  barbarous  tongue.  Swear 
it  to  me  in  English." 

"  I  swear  it,  my  beautiful  gipsy.     I  love  you." 

"Me  only?" 

"You  only ;"  and  Eugenia  heard  him  kiss  her  again 
and  again. 

"Dis  done,  my  Geraldo.  You  love  me  more  than 
the  pale-faced  miss  who  scorned  you  ?"  He  laughed  a 
wild,  unpleasant  sounding  laugh. 

"  Why  not  ?  You  can  love  or  say  you  can  love. 
She  was  the  changeable  white  moon  ;  you  are  the 
glorious  Southern  sun.  She  was  ice ;  you  are  fire. 
Better  be  burnt  to'  death  than  die  of  cold  and  starva- 
tion. Men  have  worshipped  you — men  have  died  for 
you.     I  love  3'ou." 

They  came  into  the  room.  His  arm  was  round  her. 
Her  radiant  face  rested  on  his  shoulder.  Again  and 
again  he  kissed  those  beautiful  lips.  His  eyes  were 
only  for  her  and  saw  not  Eugenia. 

Miss  Herbert  rose.  Her  face  was  as  white  as  her 
marble  prototype's.     She  might  have  passed  out  un- 


THE  TALE  OF  A   SCULPTOR.  53 

observed  by  Gerald,  but  Mile.  Carlotta  was  on  the 
watch.  She  pointed  to  her,  and  Gerald  turned  and  saw 
Eugenia. 

He  had  but  time  to  realize  it  was  no  vision — then 
she  was  gone.  With  a  wild  cry  he  turned  to  follow 
her,  but  the  woman  twined  her  arms  around  him  and 
restrained  him.  She  was  strong,  and  for  some  moments 
detained  him.  Her  resistance  maddened  him.  With 
a  fierce  oath  he  grasped  her  round  arms  and  tore  them 
from  his  neck,  throwing  her  away  with  such  force  that 
she  fell  upon  the  floor.     Then  he  rushed  after  Eugenia. 

She  was  walking  swiftly  along  the  road.  He  soon 
reached  her  side ;  but,  although  aware  of  his  presence, 
she  neitlier  spoke  nor  looked  at  him. 

"What  brought  you  here?"  he  said  hoarsely. 

Slie  made  no  reply — only  walked  the  faster. 

"  Tell  me  why  you  came  ?"  he  said.  '*  I  will  never 
leave  you  until  you  answer  me." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him.  Fresh  from  that 
scene  in  the  studio — with  those  words  still  ringing  in 
her  ears — even  the  great  change  she  saw  in  his  face 
did  not  move  her  to  pity. 

"I  came,"  she  said,  ''on  the  eve  of  my  marriage,  to 
ask  forgiveness  of  a  man  whom  I  fancied  I  had 
wronged.  I  am  glad  I  came.  I  found  him  happy, 
and  in  society  after  his  own  heart." 

Her  voice  was  cold  and  contemptuous.  He  quivered 
beneath  her  scorn.  At  that  moment  a  cab  passed. 
Eugenia  called  it. 

'•Leave  me  !"  she  said  roGerald.  "L^aveme!  Our 
paths  in  life  shall  cross  no  nioie." 

He  grasped  her  wrist.  *'  Do  you  dare  to  reproach 
me  ?    You  !    Eugenia,  I  told  you  it  was  life  or  death." 


54  THE  TALE  OF  A  SCULPTOR. 

"Life  or  deatli!"  she  repeated.  "Death,  at  any 
rate,  seems  made  very  sweet  to  you." 

Still  holding  her  wrist,  he  looked  into  her  eyes  in  a 
strange,  hopeless  way.  He  saw  nothing  in  them  to 
help  him.     He  leaned  down  to  her  ear. 

"  Yes,  death,"  he  said  in  a  solemn  whisper ;  "  but 
the  moral  and  spiritual  death  comes  first." 

His  hand  left  her  wrist.  He  turned,  and  without  a 
word  strode  away.  Whither?  Even  as  Tannhauser 
returned  to  the  Yenusberg,  so  Gerald  Leigh  returned 
to  his  studio  and  Carlotta. 

Eugenia  wept  all  the  way  home.  Wept  for  herself 
and  Gerald.  Wept  for  the  shame  she  had  endured. 
Wept  for  the  uselessness  of  the  contemplated  atone- 
ment. Wept  for  the  life  before  her,  and  for  a  man's 
future  and  career  wrecked  by  her  weakness. 

The  next  week  she  married  Sir  Ealph  l^orgate. 
The  ceremony  was  surrounded  by  befitting  splendor. 
Yet,  even  at  the  alter,  Gerald  Leigh's  pale  passionate 
face  rose  before  her,  and  she  knew  it  would  never 
leave  her  thoughts.     She  loved  him  still ! 

On  her  wedding  morning  she  received  many  letters. 
She  had  no  time  to  read  them,  so  took  them  with  her, 
and  perused  them  as  she  went  north  with  her  hus- 
band. Among  them  was  one  in  a  strange  handwriting ; 
it  ran  thus : 

"  For  your  sake  he  struck  me — Carlotta !  But  he 
came  back  to  me  and  is  mine  again.  Him  I  forgive ; 
not  you.  We  go  abroad  together  to  warm,  sunny 
lands.  Some  day  we  shall  quarrel  and  part.  Then  I 
shall  remember  you  and  take  my  revenge.  How? 
That  husband,  for  whom  you  deserted  Gerald,  I  shall 
take  from  you." 


THE  TALE   OP  A   SCULPTOR,  56 

Eugenia's  lip  curled.  She  tore  the  letter  and  threw 
the  pieces  out  of  the  carriage  window. 

Two  years  afterwards  Lady  Norgate  w^as  listlessly 
larniug  the  leaves  of  a  society  journal.  Although  she 
was  a  great  and  fashionable  lady  she  w\as  often  listless, 
and  found  life  rather  a  dreary  proceeding.  She  read 
to-day,  among  the  theatrical  notes,  that  Mile.  Carlotta, 
the  divine  opera  bouffe  actress,  was  engaged  to  appear 
next  month  at  the  "  Frivolity."  Although  the  woman's 
absurd  threat  was  unheeded,  if  not  forgotten,  her  name 
recalled  too  vividly  the  most  painful  episode  in  Lady 
Norgate's  life.  She  turned  to  another  part  of  the 
paper  and  read  that  the  gentleman  who  committed 
suicide  under  such  distressing  circumstances,  at  Mona- 
co, had  now  been  identified.  He  was  Mr.  Gerald 
Leigh,  the  sculptor,  whose  first  important  work  at- 
trated  so  much  attention  two  years  ago.  It  was  hinted 
that  his  passion  for  a  well-known  actress  was  the  cause 
of  the  rash  deed. 

Lady  JSTorgate  dropped  the  paper,  and  covered  her 
face  w^ith  her  hands.  He  had  spoken  truly.  Her  love 
meant  life  or  death ! 

Had  she  believed,  or  troubled  about  the  concluding 
paragraph  of  the  notice,  had  she  ventured  to  tell  her- 
self it  was  true  that  Gerald  had  forgotten  her,  and 
Carlotta  was  responsible  for  his  death,  her  mind  would 
soon  have  been  set  at  rest. 

Like  a  courteous  foe  who  gives  fair  warning,  Mile. 
Carlotta  wrote  once  more  : 

"He  is  dead.  He  died  for  your  sake,  not  mine. 
Your  name,  not  mine,  was  on  his  lips.  Look  to  your- 
self.    I  am  coming  to  London." 

No  doubt  Carlotta  meant  this  letter  as  a  first  blow 


56  THE  TALE   OF  A   SCULPTOR. 

towards  revenge.  She  would  hardly  have  written  it 
n'ad  she  known  that  Lady  Norgate  would  cherish  those 
words  forever.  Poor  comfort  as  it  was,  they  told  hei 
that  Gerald  had  loved  her  to  the  last. 

Then  Mile.  Carlotta,  more  beautiful,  more  enticing, 
more  audacious  than  ever,  came  to  London. 

For  some  months  it  had  been  whispered  in  society 
that  Sir  Ralph  Norgate  was  not  so  perfect  a  husband 
as  such  a  wife  as  Eugenia  might  rightly  expect.  After 
Carlotta's  reappearance  the  whispers  grew  louder,  the 
statements  more  circumstantial,  Eugenia  caught  an 
echo  of  them  and  smiled  disdainfully. 

Then  the  name  of  Carlotta's  new  victim  became  town- 
talk.     Yet  Euo-enia  made  no  siojn. 

JS'ot  even  when  she  met  her  husband,  in  broad  day- 
light, seated  side  by  side  with  the  siren.  The  man  had 
the  grace  to  turn  his  head  away,  but  Carlotta  shot  a 
glance  of  malicious  triumph  at  the  pale  lady  who  passed 
without  a  quiver  of  the  lip.  James  Herbert  was  with 
his  sister,  and  found  this  encounter  too  much  even  for 
his  cynicism.     He  was  bound  to  speak. 

"  The  blackguard  !"  he  said.  "  But  Eugenia,  I  don't 
think  I  would  have  a  divorce  or  a  separation.  It 
makes  such  a  scandal.'* 

''  It  is  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  me,"  she 
said  coldly. 

She  spoke  the  truth.  Carlotta's  romantic  vengeance 
was  an  utter  failure.  Lady  Norgate  and  her  husband 
were,  in  truth,  no  farther  apart  than  tliey  had  been  for 
many  months.     Eugenia  was  indifferento 

And,  as  time  goes  on,  grows  more  and  more  so. 
Indifferent  to  wealth,  indifferent  to  rank,  to  pleasure, 
even  to  pain.     She  cherishes  nothing,  cares  for  noth- 


THE  TALE   OF  A  SCULPTORo  67 

ing,  save  the  remembrance  that  she  was  once  loved  by- 
Gerald  Leigh — that  he  bade  lier  give  hini  life  or  dearli 
— that  altliough  she  gave  him  death,  he  died  with  her 
name  on  his  lips  I 


CARRISTON'S  GIFT, 


PART   I. 

TOLD  BY  PHILIP  BRAND,  M.D.,  LONDON. 


1. 


I  WISH  I  had  the  courage  to  begin  this  tale  by 
turning  to  my  professional  visiting  books,  and,  taking 
at  random  any  month  out  of  the  last  twenty  years,  give 
its  record  as  a  fair  sample  of  my  ordinary  work.  The 
dismal  extract  would  tell  you  what  a  doctor's — I 
suppose  I  may  say  a  successful  doctor's — lot  is,  when 
his  practice  lies  in  a  poor  and  densely-populated  district 
of  London.  Dreary  as  such  a  beginning  might  be,  it 
would  perhaps  allay  some  of  the  incredulity  which  this 
(tale  may  probably  provoke,  as  it  would  plainly  show 
how  little  room  there  is  for  things  imaginative  or 
romantic  in  work  so  hard  as  mine,  or  among  such 
grim  realities  of  poverty,  pain,  and  grief  as  those  by 
which  I  have  been  surrounded.  It  would  certainly 
make  it  appear  extremely  unlikely  that  I  should  have 
found  time  to  imagine,  much  less  to  write,  a  romance 
or  melodrama. 

The  truth  is  that  when  a  man  has  toiled  from  nine 


CARRISTON'S   GIFT.  69 

o'clock  in  the    morninof  until  nine  o'clock  at  nisht. 


such  leisure  as  he  can  enjoy  is  precious  to  him, 
especially  when  even  that  short  respite  is  liable  to  be 
broken  in  upon  at  any  moment. 

Still,  in  spite  of  tlie  doleful  picture  I  have  drawn  of 
what  may  be  called  "  the  daily  grind,"  I  begin  this  tale 
with  the  account  of  a  holiday. 

In  the  autumn  of  1864  I  turned  my  back  with  right 
good-will  upon  London  streets,  hospitals,  and  patients, 
and  took  my  seat  in  the  [N'orth  Express.  The  first 
revolution  of  the  wheels  sent  a  thrill  of  delight  through 
my  jaded  frame.  A  joyful  sense  of  freedom  came 
over  me.  I  had  really  got  away  at  last !  Moreover, 
I  had  left  no  address  behind  me,  so  for  three  blessed 
weeks  might  roam  an  undisputed  lord  of  myself. 
Three  weeks  were  not  very  many  to  take  out  of  the  fifty- 
two,  but  they  were  all  I  could  venture  to  give  myself  ; 
for  even  at  that  time  my  practice,  if  not  so  lucrative  as  I 
could  wish,  was  a  large  and  increasing  one.  Having 
done  a  twelvemonth's  hard  work,  I  felt  that  no  one  in 
the  kingdom  could  take  his  holiday  with  a  conscience 
clearer  than  mine,  so  I  lay  back  in  a  peculiarly  contented 
frame  of  mind,  and  discounted  the  coming  pleasures  of 
my  brief  respite  from  labor. 

There  are  many  ways  of  passing  a  holiday — many 
places  at  which  it  may  be  spent ;  but  after  all,  if  you 
wish  to  enjoy  it  thoroughly  there  is  but  one  royal  rule 
to  be  followed.  That  is,  simply  to  please  yourself — go 
where  you  like,  and  mount  the  innocent  holiday  hobby 
which  is  dearest  to  your  heart,  let  its  name  be  botan}", 
geology,  entomology,  conchology,  venery,  piscation,  or 
what  not.  Then  ^^ou  will  be  happy,  and  return  well 
braced  up  for  the  battle  of  life.     I  knew  a  city  clerk 


60  oarriston's  gift. 

with  literary  tastes,  who  invariablj'  spent  his  annual 
fortnight  among  tlie  mustiest  tomes  of  the  British 
Museum,  and  averred  that  his  health  was  more  bene- 
fited by  so  doing  than  if  he  had  passed  the  time  in- 
haling the  freshest  sea-breezes.  I  daresay  he  was  right 
in  his  assertion. 

Sketcliing  lias  always  been  my  favorite  holiday  pup 
suit.  Poor  as  my  drawings  may  be,  nevertheless,  as  I 
turn  tliem  over  in  my  portfolio,  the}^  bi'ing  to  me  at 
least  vivid  remembrances  of  many  sweet  and  pictur- 
esque spots,  happy  days,  and  congenial  companions. 
It  was  not  for  me  to  say  anything  of  their  actual  merits, 
but  they  are  dear  to  me  for  their  associations. 

Tliis  particuhir  year  I  went  to  North  Wales,  and 
made  Bettwsy-Coed  my  headquarters.  I  stayed  at 
the  Royal  Oak,  that  well-known  little  inn  dear  to  many 
an  artist's  heart,  and  teeming  with  reminiscences  of 
famous  men  who  have  sojourned  there  times  without 
number.  It  was  here  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
man  with  whose  life  the  curious  events  here  told  are 
connected. 

On  the  first  day  after  my  arrival  at  Bettws  my  ap- 
preciation of  my  liberty  was  so  thorough,  ray  appetite 
for  the  enjoyment  of  the  beauties  of  nature  so  keen 
and  insatiable,  that  I  went  so  far  and  saw  so  much, 
that  when  I  returned  to  theE-oyal  Oak  night  had  fallen 
and  the  hour  of  dinner  had  long  passed  by.  I  was, 
when  my  own  meal  was  placed  on  the  table,  the  only 
occupant  of  the  coffee-room.  Just  then  a  young  man 
entered,  and  ordered  something  to  eat.  The  waiter 
knowing  no  doubt  something  of  the  frank  camara- 
derie which  exists,  or  should  exist,  between  the  followers 
of  the  painter's  craft,  laid  his  cover  at  my  table.     Tke 


61 

new-comer  seated  himself,  gave  me  a  pleasant  smile 
and  a  nod,  and  in  five  minutes  we  were  in  full  swing 
of  conversation. 

The  moment  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  young  man  I 
iiad  noticed  how  singularly  handsome  he  was.  Charles 
Carriston — for  this  I  found  afterwards  to  be  his  name 
— was  about  twenty-two  years  of  age.  He  was  tall,  but 
slightly  built ;  his  whole  bearing  and  figure  being  re- 
markably elegant  and  graceful.  He  looked  even  more 
than  gentlemanly, — he  looked  distinguished.  His  face 
was  pale,  its  features  well-cut,  straight,  and  regular. 
His  forehead  spoke  of  high  intellectual  qualities,  and 
there  was  somewhat  of  that  development  over  the  eye- 
brows which  phrenologists,  I  believe,  consider  as 
evidence  of  the  possession  of  imagination.  The 
general  expression  of  his  face  was  one  of  sadness,  and 
its  refined  beauty  was  heightened  by  a  pair  of  soft, 
dark,  dreamy-looking  eyes. 

It  only  remains  to  add  that,  from  his  attire,  I  judged 
him  to  be  an  artist — a  professional  artist — to  the  back- 
bone. In  the  course  of  conversation  I  told  him  how  I 
had  classified  him.     He  smiled. 

"I  am  only  an  amateur,"  he  said;  "an  idle  man, 
nothing  more — and  you  ? " 

"  Alas !  I  am  a  doctor." 

"Then  we  shall  not  have  to  answer  to  each  other 
for  our  sins  in  painting." 

We  talked  on  pleasajitly  until  our  bodily  wants 
were  satisfied.  Then  came  that  pleasant  craving  for 
tobacco,  which  after  a  good  meal,  is  natural  to  a  well- 
regulated  digestion. 

''  Shall  we  go  and  smoke  outside  ? "  said  Carriston, 
"  The  night  is  delicious." 


62  carriston's  gift. 

We  went  out  and  sat  on  one  of  the  wooden  bencheSi 
A.S  my  new  friend  said,  the  night  was  deh'cious, 
There  was  scarcely  a  breath  of  air  moving.  The  star§ 
•and  the  moon  shone  brightly,  and  the  rush  of  the  not 
far  distant  stream  came  to  us  with  a  soothing  murmur. 
Near  us  were  three  or  four  jovial  young  artists.  They 
were  in  merry  mood ;  one  of  them  had  that  day  sold  ^ 
picture  to  a  tourist.  We  hstened  to  their  banter  until, 
most  likely  growing  thirsty,  they  re-entered  the  inn. 

Carriston  had  said  little  since  we  had  been  out  of 
doors.  He  smoked  his  cigar  placidly  and  gazed  up  at 
the  skies.  With  the  white  moonlic^ht  falliniy  on  his 
strikingly-beautiful  face — the  graceful  pose  into  which 
he  fell — he  seemed  to  me  the  embodiment  of  poetry. 
He  paid  no  heed  to  the  merry  talk  or  the  artists,  which 
so  much  amused  me — indeed,  I  doubted  if  he  heard 
their  voices. 

Yet  he  must  have  done  so,  for  as  soon  as  they  had 
left  us  he  came  out  of  his  reverie. 

**  It  must  be  very  nice,"  he  said,  "  to  have  to  make 
one's  livi'ig  by  Art." 

"  I^ice  for  those  who  can  make  livings  by  it,"  I 
answered. 

"  All  can  do  that  who  are  worth  it.  The  day  of 
Jieglected  genius  is  gone  by.  Muller  was  the  last 
puffer^r,  I  think — and  he  died  young." 

*'  If  you  are  so  sanguine,  why  not  try  your  own  luck 
fttit?" 

*'  I  would ;  but  unfortunately  I  am  a  rich  man." 

I  laughed  at  this  misplaced  regret.  Then  Carriston, 
in  the  most  simple  way,  told  me  a  good  deal  about 
himself.  He  was  an  orphan  ;  an  only  child.  He  had 
already  ample  means ;  but  fortune  had  still  favors  in 


63 

store  for  him.  At  the  death  of  his  uncle,  riow  an  aged 
man,  he  must  succeed  to  a  large  estate  and  a  baronetcy. 
The  natural,  unaffected  way  in  which  he  made  these 
confidences,  moreover  made  them  not,  I  knew,  from 
any  wish  to  increase  his  importance  in  my  eyes, 
greatly  impressed  me.  By  the  time  we  parted  for  the 
night  I  had  grown  much  interested  in  my  new  ac- 
quaintance— an  interest  not  untinged  by  envy. 
Young,  handsome,  rich,  free  to  come  or  go,  work  or 
play,  as  he  listed  !     Happy  Carriston  ! 

II. 

I  AM  disposed  to  think  that  never  before  did  a  sin- 
cere friendship,  one  which  was  fated  to  last  unbroken 
for  years,  ripen  so  quickly  as  that  between  Carriston 
and  myself.  As  I  now  look  back  I  find  it  hard  to 
associate  him  with  any,  even  a  brief,  period  of  time 
subsequent  to  our  meeting,  during  which  he  was  not 
my  bosom  friend.  I  forget  whether  our  meeting  at  the 
same  picturesque  spot  on  the  morning  which  followed 
our  self-introduction  was  the  result  of  accident  or  ar- 
rangement. Anyway,  we  spent  the  day  together,  and 
that  day  w^as  the  precursor  of  many  passed  in  each 
other's  society.  Morning  after  morning  we  sallied 
foi-th  to  do  our  best  to  transfer  the  same  bits  of  scenery 
to  our  sketching-blocks.  Evening  after  evening  we 
returned  to  dine  side  by  side,  and  afterward  to  talk 
and  smoke  together,  indoors  or  outdoors  as  the  tem- 
perature  advised  or  our  wishes  inclined. 

Great  friends  we  soon  became — inseparable  as  long 
as  my  short  holiday  lasted.  It  was,  perhaps,  pleasant 
for  each  to  work  in  company  with  an  amateur  like 
himself.     Each  could  ask  the  other's  opinion  of  the 


64  carriston's  gift. 

merits  of  the  work  done,  and  feel  happy  at  the  ap- 
proval duly  given.  An  artist's  standard  of  excellence 
is  too  high  for  a  non-professional.  When  he  praises 
your  work  he  praises  it  but  as  the  work  of  an  outsider. 
You  feel  that  such  commendation  condemns  it  and 
disheartens  you. 

However,  had  Carriston  cared  to  do  so,  I  think  he 
might  have  fearlessly  submitted  his  productions  to  any 
conscientious  critic.  His  drawings  were  immeasurably 
more  artistic  and  powerful  than  mine.  He  had  un- 
doubtedly great  talent,  and  I  was  much  surprised  to 
find  that  good  as  he  was  at  landscape,  he  was  even  bet' 
ter  at  the  figure.  He  could,  with  a  firm,  bold  hand 
draw  rapidly  the  most  marvellous  likenesses.  So  spir- 
ited and  true  were  some  of  the  studies  he  showed  me, 
that  I  could  without  flattery  advise  him,  provided  he 
eould  finish  as  he  began,  to  keep  entirely  to  the  higher 
branch  of  the  art.  I  have  now  before  me  a  series  of 
outline  faces  drawn  by  him — many  of  them  from  mem- 
ory ;  and  as  I  look  at  them  the  original  of  each  comes 
at  once  before  my  eyes. 

From  the  very  first  I  had  been  much  interested  in 
the  young  man,  and  as  day  by  day  went  by,  and  the 
peculiarities  of  his  character  were  revealed  to  me,  my 
interest  grew  deeper  and  deeper.  I  flatter  myself  that 
I  am  a  keen  observer  and  skilful  analyst  of  personal 
character,  and  until  now  fancied  that  to  write  a  descrip- 
tion of  its  component  parts  was  an  easy  matter.  Yet 
when  I  am  put  to  the  proof  I  find  it  no  simple  task  to 
convey  in  words  a  proper  idea  of  Charles  Carriston's 
mental  organization. 

I  soon  discovered  that  he  was,  I  may  say,  afflicted 
by  a  peculiarly  sensitive  nature.      Although  strong 


caeriston's  gift.  65 

and  apparently  in  good  health,  the  very  changes  of 
the  weather  seemed  to  affect  him  almost  to  the  same 
extent  as  they  affect  a  flower.  Sweet  as  his  disposition 
always  was,  the  tone  of  his  mind,  his  spirits,  his  con- 
versation, varied,  as  it  were,  with  the  atmosphere.  He 
was  full  of  imagination,  and  that  imagination,  always 
rich,  was  at  times  weird,  even  grotesquely  w^eird.  Not 
for  one  moment  did  he  seem  to  doubt  tlie  stability  of 
the  wild  theories  he  started,  or  the  possibility  of  the 
poetical  dreams  he  dreamed  being  realized.  He  had 
his  faults,  of  course ;  he  was  hasty  and  impulsive ; 
indeed  to  me  one  of  the  greatest  charms  about  the  boy 
was  that,  right  or  w^rong,  each  word  he  spoke  came 
straight  from  his  heart. 

So  far  as  I  could  judge,  the  whole  organization  of 
his  mind  was  too  highly  strung,  too  finely  wrouglit  for 
every-day  use.  A  note  of  joy,  of  sorrow,  even  of  pity 
vibrated  through  it  too  strongly  for  his  comfort  or 
well-being.  As  yet  it  had  not  been  called  upon  to 
bear  the  test  of  love,  and  fortunately — I  use  the  w^ord 
advisedly — fortunately  he  was  not,  according  to  the 
usual  significance  of  the  word,  a  religious  man,  or  I 
should  have  thought  it  not  unlikely  that  some  day  he 
would  fall  a  victim  to  that  religious  mania  so  well 
known  to  my  professional  brethren,  and  have  developed 
hysteria  or  melancholia.  He  might  even  have  fancied 
himself  a  messenger  sent  from  heaven  for  the  regen- 
eration of  mankind.  From  natures  like  Carriston's  are 
prophets  made. 

In  short,  I  may  say  that  my  exhaustive  study  of  my 
new  friend's  character  resulted  in  a  certain  amount  of 
uneasiness  as  to  his  future — an  uneasiness  not  entirely 
free  from  professional  curiosity. 
5 


Although  the  smile  came  readily  and  frequently  to 
his  lips,  the  general  bent  of  his  disposition  was  sad, 
even  despondent  and  morbid.  And  yet  few  young 
men's  lives  promised  to  be  so  pleasant  as  Charles  Car^ 
riston's. 

I  was  rallying  him  one  day  on  his  future  rank  and 
its  responsibilities. 

"You  will,  of  course,  be  disgustingly  rich?"  I  said. 

Carriston  sighed.  '*  Yes,  if  I  live  long  enough ;  but 
I  don't  suppose  I  shall." 

"  Why  in  the  world  shouldn't  you  ?  You  look  pale 
and  thin,  but  are  in  capital  health.  Twelve  long  miles 
we  have  walked  to-day — you  never  turned  a  hair." 

Carriston  made  no  reply.  He  seemed  in  deep 
thought. 

"  Your  friends  ought  to  look  after  you  and  get  you 
a  wife,"  I  said. 

"  I  have  no  friends,"  he  said  sadly.  "No  nearer  re- 
lation than  a  cousin  a  good  deal  older  than  I  am,  who 
looks  upon  me  as  one  who  was  born  to  rob  him  of 
what  should  be  his." 

"  But  by  the  law  of  primogeniture,  so  sacred  to  the 
upper  ten  thousand,  he  must  know  you  are  entitled  to 
it." 

"  Yes  ;  but  for  years  and  years  I  was  always  going  to 
die.  My  life  was  not  thought  worth  six  months'  pur- 
chase. All  of  a  sudden  I  got  well.  Ever  since  then 
I  have  seemed,  even  to  myself,  a  kind  of  interloper." 

"It  must  be  unpleasant  to  have  a  man  longing  for 
one's  death.  All  the  more  reason  you  should  marry, 
and  put  other  lives  between  him  and  the  title. 

"  I  fancy  I  shall  never  marry,"  said  Carriston,  look- 
ing at  me  with  his  soft  dark  eyeg,     "  You  see,  a  boy 


67 

who  has  >vaited  for  years  expecting  to  die,  doesn't 
grow  up  with  exactly  the  same  feelings  as  other  peo- 
ple. I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  meet  a  woman  I  can 
care  for  enough  to  make  my  wife.  No,  I  expect  my 
cousin  will  be  Sir  Ralph  yet." 

I  tried  to  laugh  him  out  of  his  morbid  ideas. 
"Those  who  live  will  see,"  I  said.  "  Only  promise  to 
ask  me  to  your  wedding,  and  better  still,  if  you  live  in 
town,  appoint  me  your  family  doctor.  It  may  prove 
the  nucleus  of  that  West  End  practice  which  it  is  the 
dream  of  every  doctor  to  establish." 

I  have  already  alluded  to  the  strange  beauty  of  Car^ 
riston's  dark  eyes.  As  soon  as  companionship  com- 
menced between  us  those  eyes  became  to  me,  from 
scientific  reasons,  objects  of  curiosity  on  account  of 
the  mysterious  expression  which  at  times  I  detected  in 
them.  Often  and  often  they  w^ore  a  look  the  like  to 
which,  I  imagine,  is  found  only  in  the  eyes  of  a  som- 
nambulist— a  look  which  one  feels  certain  is  intently 
fixed  upon  something,  yet  upon  something  beyond  the 
rano;e  of  one's  own  vision.  Durino^  the  first  two  or 
three  days  of  our  new-born  intimac}',  I  found  this  ec- 
centricity of  Carriston's  positively  startling.  When 
now  and  then  I  turned  to  him,  and  found  him  staring 
with  all  his  might  at  nothing,  my  eyes  were  compelled 
to  follow  the  direction  in  which  his  own  were  bent.  It 
was  at  first  impossible  to  divest  one's  self  of  the  belief 
that  something  should  be  there  to  justify  so  fixed  a  gaze. 
However,  as  the  rapid  growth  of  our  friendly  intercourse 
soon  showed  me  that  he  was  a  boy  of  most  ardent  po- 
etic temperament — perhaps  even  more  a  poet  than  an 
artist — I  laid  at  the  door  of  the  Muse  these  absent 
looks  and  recurring  flights  into  vacancy. 


68 

We  were  at  the  Fairy  Glen  one  morning,  sketching, 
to  the  best  of  our  ability,  the  swirling  stream,  the  gray 
rocks,  and  the  overhanging  trees,  the  last  just  growing 
brilliant  with  autumnal  tints.  80  beautiful  was  every- 
thing around  that  for  a  long  time  I  worked,  idled,  or 
dreamed  in  contented  silence.  Carriston  had  set  up  his 
easel  at  some  little  distance  from  mine.  At  last  I 
turned  to  see  how  his  sketch  was  progressing.  He  had 
evidently  fallen  into  one  of  his  brown  studies,  and,  ap- 
parently, a  harder  one  than  usual.  His  brush  had 
fallen  from  his  fingers,  his  features  were  immovable, 
and  his  strange  dark  eyes  were  absolutely  riveted  upon 
a  large  rock  in  front  of  him,  at  which  he  gazed  as  in- 
tently as  if  his  hope  of  heaven  depended  upon  seeing 
through  it. 

He  seemed  for  the  while  oblivious  to  things  mundane. 
A  party  of  laughing,  chattering,  terrible  tourist  girls 
scrambled  down  the  rugged  steps,  and  one  by  one 
passed  in  front  of  him.  E'either  their  presence  nor 
the  inquisitive  glances  they  cast  on  his  statuesque  face 
roused  him  from  his  fit  of  abstraction.  For  a  moment 
I  wondered  if  the  boy  took  opium  or  some  other  nar- 
cotic on  the  sly.  Full  of  the  thought  I  rose,  crossed 
over  to  him,  and  laid  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  As 
he  felt  my  touch  he  came  to  himself,  and  looked  up  at 
me  in  a  dazed,  inquiring  way. 

"Really,  Carriston,"  I  said,  laughingly,  "you  must 
reserve  your  dreaming  fits  until  we  arc  in  places  where 
tourists  do  not  congregate,  or  you  will  be  thought  a 
madman,  or  at  least  a  poet." 

He  made  no  reply.  He  turned  away  from  me  im- 
patiently, even  rudely;  then,  picking  up  his  brush, 
went  on  with  his  sketch.     After  awhile  he  seemed  to 


carriston's  gift.  6& 

recover  from  liis  pettishness,  and  we  spent  the  re 
mainder  of  the  day  as  pleasantly  as  usuah 

As  we  trudged  home  in  the  twilight,  he  said  to  me 
in  an  apologetic,  almost  penitent  way, 

"I  hope  I  was  not  rude  to  you  just  now." 

*'  When  do  you  mean  ?"  I  asked,  having  ahiiost  for- 
gotten the  trivial  incident. 

"When  you  woke  me  from  what  you  called  my 
dreaming." 

"  Oh  dear,  no.  You  were  not  at  all  rude.  If  you 
had  been,  it  was  but  the  penalty  due  to  my  presump- 
tion. The  flight  of  genius  should  be  respected,  not 
checked  by  a  material  hand." 

"  That  is  nonsense  ;  I  am  not  a  genius,  and  you  must 
forgive  me  for  my  rudeness,"  said  Carriston  simply. 

After  walking  some  distance  in  silence  he  spoke 
again.  "I  wish  when  you  are  with  me  yd^i  would  try 
and  stop  me  from  getting  into  that  state.  It  does  me 
no  good." 

Seeing  he  was  in  earnest  I  promised  to  do  my  best^ 
and  was  curious  enough  to  ask  him  whither  his 
thoughts  wandered  during  those  abstracted  moments. 

"I  can  scarcely  tell  you,"  he  said.  Presently  he 
asked,  speaking  with  hesitation,  "I  suppose  you  never 
feel  that  under  certain  circumstances — circumstances 
which  you  cannot  explain — you  might  be  able  to  see 
things  which  are  invisible  to  others?" 

"  To  see  things.     What  things  ?" 

"  Things,  as  I  said,  which  no  one  else  can  see.  You 
must  know  there  are  people  who  possess  this  power." 

"  I  know  that  certain  people  have  asserted  they 
possess  what  they  call  second-siglit  ;  but  the  assertion 
is  too  absurd  to  waste  time  in  refuting." 


70  oarriston's  gift. 

"  Yet,"  said  Carriston  dreamily,  "  I  know  that  if  I 
did  not  strive  to  avoid  it  some  such  power  would 
come  to  me." 

^' You  are  too  ridiculous,  Carriston,"  I  said.  "  Some 
people  see  what  others  don't  because  they  have  longer 
sight.  You  may,  of  course,  imagine  anything.  But 
your  eyes — handsome  eyes  they  are,  too — contain  cer- 
tain properties,  known  as  humors  and  lenses,  therefore 
in  order  to  see — " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  Carriston  ;  "  I  know  exactly 
all  you  are  going  to  say.  You,  a  man  of  science, 
ridicule  everything  which  breaks  what  you  are  pleased 
to  call  the  law  of  Nature.  Yet  take  all  the  unaccount- 
able tales  told.  Nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  you 
expose  to  scorn  or  throw  grave  doubt  upon,  yet  the 
thousandth  rests  on  evidence  which  cannot  be  upset 
or  disputed.  The  possibility  of  that  one  proves  the 
possibility  of  all." 

"  Not  at  all  ;  but  enough  for  your  argument,"  I 
said,  amused  at  the  boy's  wild  talk. 

''You  doctors,"  he  continued  with  that  delicious  air 
of  superiority  so  often  assumed  by  laymen  when  they 
are  in  good  health,  "  put  too  much  to  the  credit  of  dis 
eased  imagination." 

"No  doubt ;  it's  a  convenient  shelf  on  which  to  put 
a  difficulty.     But  go  on." 

"  The  body  is  your  province,  yet  you  can't  explain 
why  a  cataleptic  patient  should  hear  a  watch  tick  when 
it  is  placed  against  his  foot." 

"  Nor  you  ;  nor  any  one.  But  perhaps  it  may  aid 
you  to  get  rid  of  your  rubbishing  tlieories  if  I  tell  you 
that  catalepsy,  as  you  understand  it,  is  a  disease  not 
known  to  us ;  in  fact,  it  does  not  exist." 


carriston's  gift.  71 

He  seemed  crestfallen  at  hearing  this.  "  But  what 
do  you  want  to  prove  ?"  I  asked.  ''  What  have  you 
yourself  seen  V' 

"  Kothing,  I  tell  you.  And  I  pray  I  may  never  see 
dnything." 

After  this  lie  seemed  inclined  to  shirk  the  subject, 
but  I  pinned  him  to  it.  I  was  really  anxious  to  get 
at  the  true  state  of  his  mind.  In  answer  to  the  lead 
ing  questions  with  which  I  plied  him,  Carriston  re- 
vealed an  amount  of  superstition  which  seemed  utterly 
childish  and  out  of  place  beside  the  intellectual  facul- 
ties which  he  undoubtedly  possessed.  So  much  so, 
that  at  last  I  felt  more  inclined  to  laugh  at  than  to 
argue  with  him. 

Yet  I  was  not  altogether  amused  by  his  talk.  His 
wild  arguments  and  wilder  beliefs  made  me  fancy 
there  must  be  a  weak  spot  somewhere  in  his  brain — 
even  made  me  fear  lest  his  end  might  be  madness. 
The  thought  made  me  sad ;  for,  with  the  exception  of 
the  eccentricities  which  I  have  mentioned,  I  reckoned 
Carriston  the  pleasantest  friend  I  had  ever  made.  His 
amiable  nature,  his  good  looks,  and  perfect  breeding 
had  endeared  the  young  man  to  me  ;  so  much  so,  that 
I  resolved,  during  the  remainder  of  the  time  we  should 
spend  together,  to  do  all  I  could  toward  talking  the 
nonsense  out  of  him. 

My  efforts  were  unavailing.  I  kept  a  sharp  look- 
out upon  him,  and  let  him  fall  into  no  more  mysterious 
reveries ;  but  the  curious  idea  that  he  possessed,  or 
could  possess,  some  gift  above  human  nature,  was  too 
firmly  rooted  to  be  displaced.  On  all  other  subjects 
he  argued  fairly  and  was  open  to  reason.     On  this  one 


72  carriston's  gift. 

point  lie  was  immovable.  When  I  could  get  him  to 
notice  my  attacks  at  all,  his  answer  was : 

"You  doctors,  clever  as  you  are  with  the  body, 
know  as  little  of  psychology  as  you  did  three  thousand 
years  ago." 

When  the  time  came  for  me  to  fold  up  my  easel 
and  return  to  the  drudgery  of  life,  I  parted  from 
Carriston  with  much  regret.  One  of  those  solemn, 
but  often  broken,  promises  to  join  together  next  year 
in  another  sketching  tour  passed  between  us.  Then  I 
went  back  to  London,  and  during  the  subsequent 
months^  although  I  saw  nothing  of  him,  I  often 
thought  of  my  friend  of  the  autunm. 

III. 

In  the  spring  of  1865  I  went  down  to  Bournemouth 
to  see,  for  the  last  time,  an  old  friend  who  was  dying 
of  consumption.  During  a  great  part  of  the  journey 
down  I  had  for  a  travelling  companion  a  well-dressed 
gentlemanly  man  of  about  forty  years  of  age.  We 
were  alone  in  the  compartment,  and  after  interchang- 
ing some  small  civilities,  such  as  the  barter  of  news- 
papers, slid  into  conversation.  My  fellow-traveller 
seemed  to  be  an  intellectual  man,  and  well  posted  up 
in  the  doings  of  the  day.  He  talked  fluently  and  easily 
on  various  topics,  and  judging  by  his  talk  must  have 
moved  in  good  society.  Although  I  fancied  his  fea- 
tures bore  traces  of  hard  living  and  dissipation,  he  was 
not  unprepossessing  in  appearance.  The  greatest  faults 
in  his  face  were  the  remarkable  thinness  of  the  lips, 
and  his  eyes  being  a  shade  closer  together  than  one 
cares  to  see.  With  a  casual  acquaintance  such  peculi- 
arities are  of  little  moment,  but  for  my  part  I  should 


carriston's  gift.  73 

not  choose  for  a  friend  one  who  possessed  them  with 
out  due  trial  and  searching  proof. 

At  this  time  the  English  public  were  much  interested 
in  an  important  will  case  which  was  then  being  tried, 
The  reversion  to  a  vast  sum  of  money  depended  upon 
the  testator's  sanity  or  insanity.  Like  most  other  peo- 
pie  we  duly  discussed  the  matter.  I  suppose,  from 
some  of  my  remarks,  my  companion  understood  that  I 
was  a  doctor.  He  asked  me  a  good  many  technical 
questions,  and  I  described  several  curious  cases  of 
mania  which  had  come  under  my  notice.  He  seemed 
greatly  interested  in  the  subject. 

"You  must  sometimes  find  it  hard  to  say  where 
sanity  ends  and  insanity  begins,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes.  The  boundary-line  is  in  some  instances  hard 
to  define.  To  give  in  such  a  dubious  case  an  opinion 
which  would  satisfy  myself  I  should  want  to  have 
known  the  patient  at  the  time  he  was  considered  quite 
sane.'' 

"  To  mark  tlie  difference  ?" 

"  Exactly.  And  to  know  the  bent  of  the  character. 
For  instance,  there  is  a  friend  of  mine.  He  was  per- 
fectly sane  when  last  I  saw  him,  but  for  all  I  know  he 
may  have  made  great  progress  the  other  way  in  the 
interval." 

Then  without  mentioning  names,  dates,  or  places,  I 
described  Carriston's  peculiar  disposition  to  my  intelli- 
gent listener.     He  heard  me  with  rapt  interest. 

*'  You  predict  he  will  go  mad  ?"  he  said. 

"  Certainly  not.  Unless  anything  unforeseen  arises 
he  will  probably  live  and  die  as  sane  as  you  or  I." 

"  Why  do  you  fear  for  him,  then  ?" 

*'  For  this  reason.     I  think  that  any  sudden  emotion 


74  CARRISTON  S   GIFT. 

— violent  grief,  for  instance — any  unexpected  and 
crushing  blow — might  at  once  disturb  the  balance  of 
his  mind.  Let  his  life  run  on  in  an  even  groove,  and 
all  will  be  well  with  him." 

My  companion  was  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

"Did  3^ou  mention  your  friend's  name?"  he  asKed. 

I  laughed.  "  Doctors  never  give  names  when  they 
quote  cases." 

At  the  next  station  my  companion  left  the  train. 
He  bade  me  a  polite  adieu,  and  thanked  me  for  the 
pleasure  my  conversation  had  given  him.  After  won- 
dering what  station  in  life  he  occupied  I  dismissed  him 
from  my  mind,  as  one  who  had  crossed  my  patli  for  a 
short  time  and  would  probably  never  cross  it  again. 

Although  I  did  not  see  Charles  Carriston  I  received 
several  letters  from  him  during  the  course  of  the  year. 
•  He  had  not  forgotten  our  undertaking  to  pass  my  next 
holiday  together.  Early  in  the  autumn,  just  as  I  was 
beginning  to  long  with  a  passionate  longing  for  open 
air  and  blue  skies,  a  letter  came  from  Carriston.  He 
was  now,  he  said,  roughing  it  in  the  Western  High- 
lands. He  reminded  me  of  last  year's  promise.  Could 
I  get  away  from  work  now  ?  AVould  I  join  him?  If 
I  did  not  care  to  visit  Scotland,  would  I  suggest  some 
other  place  where  he  could  join  me?  Still,  the  scenery 
by  which  he  Avas  now  surrounded  was  superb,  and  the 
accommodation  he  had  secured,  if  not  luxurious,  fnirly 
comfortable.  He  thought  we  could  not  do  better.  A 
postscript  to  his  letter  asked  me  to  address  hirii  as  Ce- 
cil Carr,  not  Charles  Carriston.  He  had  a  reason  for 
changing  his  name  ;  a  foolish  reason  I  should  no  doubt 
call  it.  When  we  met  he  w^ould  let  me  know  it. 
This  letter  at  once  decided  me  to  accept  his  in  vita- 


carriston's  gift.  76 

tion.  In  a  week's  time  my  arrangements  for  leave  oi 
absence  were  complete,  and  I  was  speeding  northward 
in  the  highest  spirits,  and  well  equipped  with  every- 
thing necessary  for  my  favorite  holiday  pursuit.  1 
looked  forward  with  the  greatest  pleasure  to  again 
meeting  Carriston.  I  found  him  at  Callendar  waiting 
for  me.  The  coach  did  not  follow  the  route  we  were 
obliofed  to  take  in  order  to  reach  the  somewhat  unfre- 
quented  part  of  the  country  in  which  our  tent  was 
pitched,  so  my  friend  had  secured  the  services  of  a 
primitive  vehicle  and  a  strong  shaggy  pony  to  bear  us 
the  remainder  of  the  journey. 

So  soon  as  our  first  hearty  greetings  were  over  I  pro- 
ceeded to  ascertain  how  the  last  year  had  treated 
Carriston.  I  was  both  delighted  and  astonished  at  the 
great  change  for  the  better  which  had  taken  place  in 
his  manner,  no  less  than  his  apearance.  He  looked  far 
more  robust ;  he  seemed  happier,  brighter ;  although 
more  like  ordinary  humanity.  Not  only  had  he  greeted 
me  with  almost  boisterous  glee,  but  during  our  drive 
through  the  wonderful  scenery  he  was  in  the  gayest  of 
spirits  and  full  of  fun  and  anecdote.  I  congratulated 
him  heartily  upon  the  marked  improvement  in  his 
health,  both  mentally  and  physically 

"  Yes,  I  am  much  better,"  he  said.  "  I  followed  a 
part  of  your  advice;  gave  up  moping,  tried  constant 
change  of  scene,  interested  myself  in  many  more  things. 
I  am  quite  a  different  man." 

"No  supernatural  visitations?"  I  asked,  anxious  to 
learn  that  his  cure  in  that  direction  was  complete. 

His  face  fell.  He  hesitated  a  second  before  answer- 
ing. 

"  No— not  now,"  he  said.     "  I  fought  against  the 


76 

strange  feeling,  and  I  believe  have  got  rid  ot  it — at 
least  I  hope  so." 

I  said  no  more  on  the  subject.  Carriston  phmged 
into  a  series  of  vivid  and  mimetic  descriptions  of  the 
varieties  of  Scotch  character  which  he  had  met  with 
during  his  stay.  He  depicted  his  experiences  so 
amusingly  that  I  laughed  heartily  for  many  a  mile. 

"Butvi^hy  the  change  in  your  name?"  I  asked,  when 
he  paused  for  a  moment  in  his  merry  talk. 

He  blushed,  and  looked  rather  ashamed.  "  I  scarcely 
like  to  tell  you  ;  you  will  think  my  reason  so  absurd." 

"Never  mind.  I  don't  judge  you  by  the  ordinary 
standard." 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,  my  cousin  is  also  in  Scotland.  I 
feared  if  I  gave  my  true  name  at  the  hotel  at  which  I 
stayed  on  my  way  here,  he  might  perchance  see  it,  and 
look  me  up  in  these  wild  regions." 

"  Well,  and  what  if  he  did  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you.  I  hate  to  know  I  feel  like  it.  But 
I  have  always,  perhaps  w^ithout  cause,  been  afraid  of 
him  ;  and  this  place  is  horribly  lonely." 

'Now  that  I  understood  the  meaning  of  his  words,  I 
thouglit  the  boy  must  be  joking ;  but  the  grave  look  ov 
his  face  showed  he  was  never  further  from  merriment. 

"  Why,  Carriston !"  I  cried,  "  you  are  positively  ridic- 
ulous about  your  cousin.  You  can't  think  the  maai 
wants  to  murder  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  think.  I  am  saying  things  to 
you  which  I  ought  not  to  say ;  but  every  time  I  meet 
him  I  feel  he  hates  me,  and  wishes  me  out  of  the 
world." 

"  Between  wishing  and  doing  there  is  a  great  differ- 
ence.    I  dare  say  all  this  's  fauc:v  on  your  part." 


carriston's  gift.  77 

"  Perhaps  so.  Any  way,  Cecil  Carr  is  as  good  a  name 
up  here  as  Charles  Carriston,  so  please  humor  my  whim 
and  say  no  more  about  it." 

As  it  made  no  difference  to  me  by  what  name  he 
chose  to  call  himself  I  dropped  the  subject.  I  knew 
of  old  that  some  of  his  strange  prejudices  were  proof 
against  anything  I  could  do  to  remove  them. 

At  last  we  reached  our  temporary  abode.  It  was  a 
substantial,  low-built  house,  owned  and  inhabited  by  a 
thrifty  middle-aged  widow,  who,  although  well-to-do  so 
far  as  the  simple  ideas  of  her  neighbors  went,  was  never- 
theless always  willing  to  add  to  her  resources  by  accom- 
modating such  stray  tourists  as  wished  to  bury  them- 
selves for  a  day  or  two  in  solitude,  or  artists  who,  like 
ourselves,  preferred  to  enjoy  the  beauties  of  Nature 
undisturbed  by  the  usual  ebbing  and  flowing  stream  of 
sightseers. 

As  Carriston  asserted,  the  accommodation  if  homely 
was  good  enough  for  two  single  nip.ii ;  the  fare  w^as 
plentiful,  and  our  rooms  were  the  picture  of  cleanli- 
ness. After  a  cursory  inspection  I  felt  sure  that  I  could 
for  a  few  weeks  make  myself  very  happy  in  ^hese 
quarters. 

I  had  not  been  twenty-four  hours  in  the  house  before 
I  found  out  one  reason  for  the  great  change  for 
ihe  better  in  Charles  Carriston's  demeanor;  knew 
his  step  was  lighter,  his  eye  brighter,  his  voice  gayer, 
and  his  whole  bearing  altered.  Whether  the  reason 
was  a  subject  of  congratulation  or  not  I  could  not  as 
yet  say. 

The  boy  was  in  love ;  in  love  as  only  a  passionate, 
romantic,  imaginative  nature  can  be ;  and  even  then 
only  once  in  a  lifetime.     Heedless,  headstrong,  impul- 


78  caeriston's  gift. 

sive,  and  entirely  his  own  master,  he  had  given  his  Tiry 
heart  and  soul  into  the  keeping  of  a  woman. 

IV. 

That  a  man  of  Carriston's  rank,  breeding  and  re. 
finement  should  meet  his  fate  within  the  walls  of  a 
lonely  farm-house,  beyond  the  Trossachs,  seems  incredi' 
ble.  One  would  scarce'iy  expect  to  find  among  such 
humble  surroundings  a  wife  suitable  to  a  man  of  hia 
stamp.  And  j^et  when  I  saw  the  woman  who  had  won 
him  I  neither  wondered  at  the  conquest  nor  did  I  blame 
him  for  weakness. 

I  made  the  great  discovery  on  the  morning  after  my 
arrival.  Eager  to  taste  the  freshness  of  the  morning 
air,  I  rose  betimes  and  went  for  a  short  stroll.  I  re- 
turned, and  whilst  standing  at  the  door  of  the  house, 
was  positively  startled  by  the  beauty  of  a  girl  who 
passed  me  and  entered,  as  if  she  was  a  regular  inhabi- 
tant of  tlie  place.  Not  a  rosy  Scotch  lassie,  sucli  as  one 
would  expect  to  find  indigenous  to  the  soil ;  but  a  slim, 
graceful  girl,  with  delicate  classical  features.  A  girl 
with  a  mass  of  knotted  light  hair,  yet  with  the  appar- 
ent anomaly,  dark  eyes,  eyelashes,  and  eyebrows — a 
combination  which,  to  my  mind,  makes  a  style  of 
beauty  rare,  irresistible,  and  dangerous  above  all  others. 
The  features  which  filled  the  exquisite  oval  of  her  face 
were  refined  and  faultless.  Her  complexion  was  pale, 
but  its  pallor  in  no  way  suggested  anything  save  per- 
fect health.  To  cut  my  enthusiastic  description  short, 
I  may  at  once  say  it  has  never  been  my  good  fortune 
to  cast  my  eyes  on  a  lovelier  creature  than  this  young 
girl. 

Although  her  dress  was  of  the  plainest  and  simplest 


carriston's  gift.  79 

description,  no  one  could  have  mistaken  her  for  a  ser- 
rant ;  and  nuich  as  I  admire  the  bonny,  healthy  Scotch 
country  lassie,  I  felt  sure  that  mountain  air  had  never 
reared  a  being  of  this  ethereally  beautiful  type.  As 
she  passed  me  I  raised  my  hat  instinctively.  She  grace- 
fully bent  her  golden  head,  and  bade  me  a  quiet  but 
unembarrassed  good- morning.  My  eyes  followed  her 
until  she  vanished  at  the  end  of  the  dark  passage  which 
led  to  the  back  of  the  house. 

Even  during  the  brief  glimpse  I  enjoyed  of  this  fair 
unknown  a  strange  idea  occurred  to  me.  There  was  a 
remarkable  likeness  between  her  delicate  features  and 
those,  scarcely  less  delicate,  of  Carriston.  This  resem- 
blance may  have  added  to  the  interest  the  girl's  appear- 
ance awoke  in  my  mind.  Any  way  I  entered  our  sit- 
ting-room, and,  a  prey  to  curiosity,  and  perhaps,  hunger, 
awaited  with  much  impatience  the  appearance  of  Car- 
riston— and  breakfast. 

The  former  arrived  first.  Generally  speaking  he 
was  afoot  long  before  I  was,  but  this  morning  we  had 
reversed  the  usual  order  of  thino^s.  As  soon  as  I  saw 
him  I  cried, 

"Carriston !  tell  me  at  once  who  is  the  lovely  girl  I 
met  outside?  An  angel  with  dark  eyes  and  golden 
hair      Is  she  staying  here  like  ourselves?" 

A  look  of  pleasure  flashed  into  his  eyes — a  look 
which  pretty  well  told  me  everything.  Nevertheless 
he  answered  as  carelessly  as  if  such  lovely  young 
women  were  as  common  to  the  mountain  side  as  rocks 
and  brambles. 

"  I  expect  you  mean  Miss  Rowan ;  a  nieoe  of  our 
worthy  landlady.     She  lives  with  her." 

"  She  cannot  be  Scotch,  with  such  a  face  and  eyes  ?" 


80  carriston's  gift. 

"  Half-and-half.  Her  father  was  called  an  English* 
man  ;  but  was,  I  believe,  of  French  extraction.  They 
say  the  name  was  originally  Rohan." 

Carriston  seemed  to  have  made  close  inquiries  as  tc 
Miss  Cowan's  parentage. 

"  But  what  brings  her  here  ?"  I  ashed. 

"  She  has  nowhere  else  to  go.  Rowan  was  an  artist. 
He  married  a  sister  of  our  hostess,  and  bore  her  awaj 
from  her  native  land.  Some  years  ago  she  died,  leav. 
ing  this  one  daughter.  Last  year  the  father  died,  pen 
niless,  they  tell  me,  so  the  girl  has  since  then  lived 
with  her  only  rektive,  her  aunt." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  as  you  seem  to  know  all  about 
her,  you  can  introduce  me  by  and  by." 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure,  if  Miss  Rowan  per. 
mits,"  said  Carriston.  I  was  glad  to  hear  him  give  the 
conditional  promise  with  as  much  respect  to  the  lady's 
wishes  as  if  she  had  been  a  duchess. 

Then,  with  the  liberty  a  close  friertd  may  take,  I 
drew  toward  me  a  portfolio,  full,  I  presumed,  of 
sketches  of  surrounding  scenery.  To  my  surprise 
Carriston  jumped  up  hastily  and  snatched  it  from  me. 
^'  They  are  too  bad  to  look  at,"he  said.  As  I  struggled 
to  regain  possession,  sundry  strings  broke,  and,  lo  and 
behold  !  the  floor  was  littered,  not  with  delineations  of 
rock,  lake,  and  torrent,  but  with  images  of  the  young 
girl  I  had  seen  a  few  minutes  before.  Full  face,  pro- 
tile,  three  quarter  face,  five,  even  seven  eight  face,  aril 
were  there — each  study  perfectly  executed  by  Carris- 
ton's  clever  pencil.  I  threw  myself  into  a  chair  and 
laughed  aloud,  whilst  the  young  man,  blushing  and 
discomforted,  quickly  huddled  the  portraits  between 
the  covers,  just  as  a  genuine  Scotch  lassie  bore  in  the 
olentif ul  and,  to  me,  very  welcome  breakfast. 


;carriston's  gift.  8i 

Carriston  did  favor  me  with  his  company  during  the 
whole  of  that  day;  but,  in  spite  of  my  having  come 
to  Scotland  to  enjoy  his  society,  that  day,  from  easily- 
guessed  reasons,  was  the  only  one  in  which  I  had  un- 
disputed possession  of  my  friend. 

Of  course  I  bantered  him  a  great  deal  on  the  port- 
folio episode.  He  took  it  in  good  part,  attempting 
little  or  no  defence.  Indeed,  before  night  he  had  told 
me,  with  all  a  boy's  fervor,  how  he  had  loved  Made- 
line Rowan  at  first  sight,  how  in  the  short  space  of 
time  which  had  elapsed  since  that  meeting  he  had 
wooed  her  and  won  her;  how  good  and  beautiful  she 
was;  how  he  worshipped  her;  how  happy  he  felt; 
how,  when  I  went  south,  he  should  accompany  me; 
and,  after  making  a  few  necessary  arrangements,  re- 
turn at  once  and  bear  his  bride  away. 

I  could  only  listen  to  him,  and  congratulate  him.  It 
was  not  my  place  to  act  the  elder,  and  advise  him 
either  for  or  against  the  marriage.  Carriston  had  only 
himself  to  please,  and,  if  he  made  a  rash  step,  only 
himself  to  blame  for  the  consequences.  And  why 
should  I  have  dissuaded  ?  I  who,  in  two  days,  envied 
the  boy's  good  fortune. 

I  saw  a  great  deal  of  Madeline  Rowan.  How 
strange  and  out-of-place  her  name  and  face  seemed 
amid  our  surroundings.  If  at  first  somewhat  shy  and 
retiring,  she  soon,  if  only  for  Carriston's  sake,  con- 
sented to  look  upon  me  as  a  friend,  and  talked  to  me 
freely  and  unreservedly.  Then  I  found  that  her  na- 
ture was  as  sweet  as  her  face.  Such  a  conquest  did 
she  make  of  me  that,  save  for  one  chimerical  reason,  I 
should  have  felt  quite  certain  that  Carriston  had  chosen 
well,  and  would  be  happy  in  wedding  the  girl  of  his 


6'2  caeeisTon's  gift. 

choice,  heedless  of  her  humble  position  in  the  world,  and 
absence  of  fitting  wealth.  When  once  his  wife,  I  felt 
sure  that  if  he  cared  for  her  to  win  social  success  her 
looks  and  bearing  would  insure  it,  and  from  the  great 
improvement  which,  as  I  have  already  said,  I  noticed 
in  his  health  and  spirits,  I  believed  that  his  marriage 
would  make  his  life  longer,  happier,  and  better. 

Now  for  mj  objection,  which  seem.s  almost  a  laugh- 
able one.  I  objected  on  the  score  of  the  extraordinary 
resemblance  which,  so  far  as  a  man  may  resemble  a 
woman,  existed  between  Charles  Carriston  and  Made- 
line Eowan.  The  more  I  saw  them  together,  the 
more  I  was  struck  by  it.  A  stranger  might  well  have 
taken  them  for  twin  brother  and  sister.  The  same 
delicate  features,  drawn  in  the  same  lines ;  the  same 
soft,  dark,  dreamy  eyes ;  even  the  same  shaped  heads 
Comparing  the  two,  it  needed  no  phrenologist  oi 
physiognomist  to  tell  you  that  where  one  excelled  the 
other  excelled ;  where  one  failed,  the  other  was  want- 
ing. IS^ow,  could  I  have  selected  a  wife  for  my  friend, 
I  would  have  chosen  one  with  habits  and  constitution 
entirely  different  from  his  own.  She  should  have  been 
a  bright,  bustling  woman,  with  lots  of  energy  and 
common-sense — one  who  would  have  rattled  him  about 
and  kept  him  going — not  a  lovely,  dark-eyed,  dreamy 
girl,  who  could  for  hours  at  a  stretch  make  herself  su- 
premely happy  if  only  sitting  at  her  lover's  feet  and 
speaking  no  word.  Yet  they  were  a  handsome  couple, 
and  never  have  I  seen  two  people  so  utterly  devoted  to 
©ach  other  as  those  two  seemed  to  be  during  those 
autumn  days  which  I  spent  with  them. 

I  soon  had  a  clear  proof  of  the  closeness  of  their 
mental  resemblance.  On^  evening  Carriston,  Madeline, 


carriston's  gift.  88 

and  I  were  sitting  out-of-doors,  watcliing  the  gray 
mist  deepening  in  the  valley  at  our  feet.  Two  of  the 
party  were,  of  course,  hand-in-hand,  the  third  seated 
at  a  discreet  distance — not  so  far  away  as  to  preclude 
conversation,  but  far  enough  off  to  be  able  to  pretend 
that  he  saw  and  heard  only  what  was  intended  for  his 
eyes  and  ears. 

How  certain  topics,  which  I  would  have  avoided 
discussing  with  Carriston,  were  started  I  hardly  remem^ 
ber.  Probably  some  strange  tale  had  been  passed 
down  from  wilder  and  even  more  solitary  regions  than 
ours — some  ridiculous  tale  of  Highland  superstition, 
no  doubt  embellished  and  ausrument  by  each  one  who 
repeated  it  to  his  fellows.  From  her  awed  talk  I  soon 
^ound  that  Madeline  Kowan,  perhaps  by  reason  of  the 
Scotch  blood  in  her  veins,  was  as  firm  a  believer  in 
things  visionary  and  beyond  nature  as  ever  Charles 
Carriston  in  his  silliest  moments  could  be.  As  soon  as 
[  could  I  stopped  the  talk,  and  the  next  day,  finding 
the  girl  for  a  few  minutes  alone,  told  her  plainly  that 
subjects  of  this  kind  should  be  kept  as  far  as  possible 
from  her  future  husband's  thoughts.  She  promised 
obedience,  with  dreamy  eyes  which  looked  as  far  away 
and  full  of  visions  as  Carriston's. 

"  By  the  by,"  I  said,  "  has  he  ever  spoken  to  jou 
about  seeing  strange  things  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  has  hinted  at  it." 

"  And  you  believe  him  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do  ;  he  told  me  so." 

This  was  unanswerable.  "  A  pretty  pair  they  will 
make,"  I  muttered,  as  Madeline  slipped  from  me  to 
Welcome  her  lover  who  was  approaching.     "  They  will 


84  CARRISTON*S  GIFT. 

see  ghosts  in  every  corner,  and  goblins  behind  every 
cnrtain." 

Nevertlieless,  the  yonng  people  had  no  doubts  about 
their  coming  bliss.  Everything  was  going  smoothly 
and  pleasantly  for  them.  Carriston  had  at  once  spoken 
to  Madeline's  aunt,  and  obtained  the  old  Scotch- 
woman's ready  consent  to  Iheir  union.  I  was  rather 
vexed  at  his  still  keeping  to  his  absurd  whim,  and  con^ 
cealing  his  true  name.  He  said  he  was  afraid  of 
alarming  her  aunt  by  telling  her  he  was  passing  under 
an  alias^  whilst  if  he  gave  Madeline  his  true  reason 
for  so  doing  she  would  be  miserable.  Moreover,  I 
found  he  had  formed  the  romantic  plan  of  marrying 
her  without  telling  her  in  what  an  enviable  position 
she  would  be  placed  so  far  as  worldly  gear  went.  A 
kind  of  Lord  Burleigh  surprise  no  doubt  commended 
itself  to  his  imaginative  brain. 

The  last  day  of  my  holiday  came.  I  bade  a  long 
and  sad  farewell  to  lake  and  mountain,  and,  accom- 
panied by  Carriston,  started  for  home.  I  did  not  see 
the  parting  proper  between  the  young  people — that 
was  far  too  sacred  a  thing  to  be  intruded  upon — but 
even  when  that  protracted  affair  was  over,  I  waited 
many,  many  minutes  whilst  Carriston  stood  hand-in- 
hand  with  Madeline,  comforting  himself  and  her  by 
reiterating  "  Only  six  weeks — six  short  weeks !  And 
then — and  then !"  It  was  the  girl  who  at  last  tore  her- 
self away,  and  then  Carriston  mounted  reluctantly  by 
my  side  on  the  rough  vehicle. 

From  Edinburgh  w^e  travelled  by  the  night  train. 
The  greater  part  of  the  way  we  had  the  compartment 
to  ourselves.  Carriston,  as  a  lover  will,  talked  of  notb 
ing  but  coming  bliss  and  his  plans  for  the  future* 


OARKISTON'S   GIFT.  85 

After  a  while  I  grew  quite  weary  of  the  monotony  of 
the  subject,  and  at  last  dozed  off,  and  for  some  little 
time  slept.  The  shrill  whistle  which  told  us  a  tunnel 
was  at  hand  aroused  me.  My  companion  was  sitting 
opposite  to  me,  and  as  I  glanced  across  at  him  my 
attention  was  arrested  by  the  same  strange  intense  look 
which  I  had  on  a  previous  occasion  at  Bettws-y-Coed 
noticed  in  his  eyes — the  same  fixed  stare — the  same 
obliviousness  to  all  that  was  passing.  Remembering 
his  request,  I  shook  him,  somewhat  roughly,  back  to 
his  senses.  He  regarded  me  for  a  moment  vacantly, 
then  said  : 

"  Kow  I  have  found  out  what  was  wantino;  to  make 
the  power  I  told  you  of  complete.  I  could  see  her  if 
I  wished." 

"  Of  course  you  can  see  her — in  your  mind's  eye. 
All  lovers  can  do  that." 

"  If  I  tried  I  could  see  her  bodily — know  exactly 
what  she  is  doing."  He  spoke  with  an  air  of  complete 
conviction. 

"  Then  I  hope,  for  the  sake  of  modesty,  you  won't 
try.  It  is  now  nearly  three  o'clock.  She  ought  to  be 
in  bed  and  asleep." 

I  spoke  lightly,  thinking  it  better  to  try  and  laugh 
him  out  of  his  folly.  He  took  no  notice  of  my  sorry 
joke. 

"No,"  he  said,  quietly,  "I  am  not  going  to  try. 
But  I  know  now  what  was  wanting.  Love — such  love 
as  mine — such  love  as  hers — makes  the  connecting  link, 
and  enables  sight  or  some  other  sense  to  cross  over 
space,  and  pass  through  every  material  obstacle." 

"Look  here,  Carriston,"  I  said  seriously,  "you  are 
talking  as  a  madman  talks.     I  don't  want  to  frighten 


86 

you,  but  I  am  bound  both  as  a  doctor  and  your  sincere 
friend  to  tell  you  that  unless  you  cure  yourself  of  these 
absurd  delusions  they  will  grow  upon  you,  develop 
fresh  forms,  and  you  will  probably  end  your  days 
under  restraint.  Ask  any  doctor,  he  will  tell  you  the 
same." 

"  Doctors  are  a  clever  race,"  answered  my  strange 
young  friend,  "  but  they  don't  know  everything." 

So  saying  he  closed  his  eyes  and  appeared  to  sleep^ 

We  parted  upon  reaching  London.  Many  kind 
words  and  wishes  passed  between  us,  and  I  gave  hirn 
some  well-meant,  and,  I  believed,  needed  warnings. 
He  was  going  down  to  see  his  uncle,  the  baronet. 
Then  he  had  some  matters  to  arrange  with  his  lawyers, 
and  above  all,  had  to  select  a  residence  for  himself  and 
his  wife.  He  would,  no  doubt,  be  in  London  for  a  short 
time.  If  possible  he  would  come  and  see  me.  Any. 
way  he  would  write  and  let  me  know  the  exact  date 
of  his  approaching  marriage.  If  I  could  manage  id 
come  to  it,  so  much  the  better.  If  not  he  would  try^ 
as  they  passed  through  town,  to  bring  his  bride  to  pay 
me  a  flying  and  friendly  visit.  He  left  me  in  the  best 
of  spirits,  and  I  went  back  to  my  patients  and  worked 
hard  to  make  up  lost  ground,  and  counteract  whatever 
errors  had  been  committed  by  my  substitute. 

Some  six  weeks  afterward — late  at  night — whilst  1 
was  deep  in  a  new  and  clever  treatise  on  zymotics,  a 
man,  liaggard,  wild,  unshorn,  and  unkempt,  rushed  past 
my  startled  servant,  and  entered  the  room  in  which  I 
sat.  He  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  I  was  horri- 
fied to  recognize  in  the  intruder  my  clever  and  brilliant 
friend,  Charles  Carriston  I 


carriston's  gift.  87 

T. 

*  The  end  has  come  sooner  than  I  expected."  Theee 
we/o  the  sad  words  I  muttered  to  myself  as  waving 
my  frightened  servant  away  I  closed  the  door,  and 
stood  alone  with  the  supposed  maniac.  He  rose  and 
wrung  my  hand,  then  without  a  word  sank  back  into 
his  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  A  sort  of 
nervous  trembling  seemed  to  run  through  his  frame. 
Deeply  distressed  I  drew  liis  hands  from  his  face. 

"Now,  Carriston,"  I  said,  as  firmly  as  I  could,  '"look 
up,  and  tell  me  what  all  this  means.  Look  up,  I  say, 
man,  and  speak  to  me." 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  mine,  and  kept  them  there, 
whilst  a  ghastly  smile — a  phantom  humor — flickered 
across  his  white  face.  'No  doubt  his  native  quicknesf 
told  him  what  I  suspected,  so  he  looked  me  full  and 
steadily  in  the  face. 

'^No,"  he  said,  "not  as  you  think.  But  let  there  be 
no  mistake.  Question  me.  Talk  to  me.  Put  me  to 
any  test.  Satisfy  yourself,  once  for  all,  that  I  am  as 
sane  as  you  are." 

He  spoke  so  rationally,  his  eyes  met  mine  so  unflinch. 
ingly,  that  I  was  rejoiced  to  know  that  my  fears  were 
as  yet  ungrounded.  There  was  grief,  excitement,  want 
of  rest  in  his  appearance,  but  his  general  manner  told 
me  he  was,  as  he  said,  as  sane  as  I  was. 

"  Thank  heaven  you  can  speak  to  me  and  look  at  me 
like  this,"  I  exclaimed. 

^'  You  are  satisfied  then  ?  "  he  said. 

"On  this  point,  yes.     Now  tell  me  what  is  wrong  T' 

Now  that  he  had  set  my  doubts  at  rest  h's  agitation 
and  excitement  seemed  to  return.  He  grasped  my 
hand  couvulsivelyj 


B6  carriston's  gift. 

*^  Madeline  ! ''  he  whispered  ;  "  Madeline — my  love 
—she  is  gone." 

"  Gone ! "  I  repeated.     "  Gone  where  1 " 

"  She  is  gone,  I  say — stolen  from  me  by  some  black- 
hearted traitor — perhaps  forever.     Who  can  tell  ? " 

"  But,  Carriston,  surely,  in  so  short  a  time  her  love 
cannot  have  been  won  by  another.  If  so,  all  I  can  say 
is—'' 

"  What ! "  he  shouted.  "  You  have  seen  her !  Yotl 
in  your  wildest  dreams  to  imagine  that  Madeline  Rowan 
would  leave  me  of  her  own  free-will !  No,  sir ;  she 
has  been  stolen  from  me — entrapped — carried  away — 
hidden.  But  I  will  find  her,  or  I  will  kill  the  black- 
hearted villain  who  has  done  this." 

He  rose  and  paced  the  room.  His  face  was  distorted 
with  rage.  He  clinched  and  unclinched  his  long  slen- 
der hands. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  I  said  ;  "you  are  talking  riddles. 
Sit  down  and  tell  me  calmly  what  has  happened.  But, 
first  of  all,  as  you  look  utterly  worn  out,  I  will  ring 
for  my  man  to  get  you  some  food.'' 

"  [N'o,"  he  said ;  "  I  want  nothing.  Weary  I  am,  for 
I  have  been  to  Scotland  and  back  as  fast  as  man  can- 
travel.  I  reached  London  a  short  time  ago,  and  after 
seeing  one  man  have  come  straight  to  you,  my  only 
friend,  for  help — it  may  be  for  protection.  But  I  hare 
eaten  and  I  have  drank,  knowing  I  must  keep  my 
health  and  strength." 

However,  I  insisted  on  some  wine  being  brought. 
He  drank  a  glass,  and  then  w^tli  a  strange  enforced 
calm,  told  me  what  had  taken  place.  His  tale  was 
this; 

A-fter  we  had  parted  company  on  our  return  froaa 


Scotland,  Carristor  went  down  to  the  family  seat  in 
Oxfordshire,  and  informed  his  nncle  of  the  impending 
change  in  his  life.  The  baronet,  an  extremely  old  man, 
infirm  and  all  but  childish,  troubled  little  about  the 
matter.  Every  acre  of  his  large  property  was  strictly 
entailed,  so  his  pleasure  or  displeasure  could  make  but 
little  alteration  in  his  nephew's  prospects.  Still,  he 
was  the  head  of  the  family,  and  Carriston  was  in  duty 
bound  to  make  the  important  news  known  to  him.  The 
young  man  made  no  secret  of  his  approaching  mar- 
riage, so  in  a  very  short  time  every  member  of  the 
family  was  aware  that  the  heir  and  future  head  wag 
about  to  ally  himself  to  a  nobody.  Knowing  nothing 
of  Madeline  Rowan's  rare  beauty  and  sweet  nature 
Carriston's  kinsmen  and  kinswomen  were  sparing  with 
their  congratuLations.  Indeed,  Mr.  Ralph  Carriston, 
the  cousin  whose  name  was  coupled  with  such  absurd 
suspicions,  went  so  far  as  to  write  a  bitter,  sarcastic 
ietter,  full  of  ironical  felicitations.  This,  and  Charles 
Carriston's  haughty  reply,  did  not  make  the  affection 
between  the  cousins  any  strongei*.  Moreover,  shortly 
afterward  the  younger  man  heard  that  inquiries  were 
being  made  in  the  neighborhood  of  Madeline's  home 
as  to  her  position  and  parentage.  Feeling  sure  that 
only  his  cousin  Ralph  could  have  had  the  curiosity  to 
institute  such  inquiries,  he  wrote  and  thanked  him  for 
the  keen  interest  he  was  manifesting  in  his  future  wel- 
fare, but  begged  that  hereafter  Mr.  Carriston  would 
apply  to  him  direct  for  any  information  he  wanted. 
The  two  men  were  now  no  longer  on  speaking  terms. 
Charles  Carriston  in  his  present  frame  of  mind  cared 
little  whether  his  relatives  wished  to  bless  or  forbid  the 
banns.     He  was  passionately  in  love,  and  at  once  set 


90  cabriston's  gift. 

about  making  arrangements  for  a  speedy  marriage. 
Althongli  Madeline  was  still  ignorant  of  the  exalted 
position  held  bj  her  lover — althongli  she  came  to  him 
absolutely  penniless — he  was  resolved  in  the  matter  of 
money  to  treat  her  as  generously  as  he  would  have 
treated  the  most  eligible  damsel  in  the  country.  There 
were  several  legal  questions  to  be  set  at  rest  concerning 
certain  property  he  wished  to  settle  upon  her.  This 
of  course  caused  delay.  As  soon  as  they  were  adjusted 
to  his  own,  or  rather  to  his  lawyer's  satisfaction,  he 
purposed  going  to  Scotland  and  carrying  away  his 
beautiful  bride.  In  the  meantime  he  cast  about  for  a 
residence. 

Somewhat  Bohemian  in  his  nature,  Carriston  had  no 
intention  of  settling  down  just  yet  to  live  the  life  of 
an  ordinary  moneyed  Englishman.  His  intention  was 
to  take  Madeline  abroad  for  some  months.  He  had 
fixed  upon  Cannes  as  a  desirable  place  at  which  to  win- 
ter, but  having  grown  somewhat  tired  of  hotel  life, 
wished  to  rent  a  furnished  house.  He  had  received 
from  an  agent  to  whom  he  had  been  advised  to  apply 
the  refusal  of  a  house,  which,  from  the  glowing 
description  given,  seemed  the  one  above  all  others  he 
wanted.  As  an  early  decision  was  insisted  upon,  my 
impulsive  young  friend  thought  nothing  of  crossing 
the  Channel  and  running  down  to  the  south  of  France 
to  see,  with  his  own  eyes,  that  the  much-lauded  place 
was  worthy  of  the  fair  being  who  was  to  be  its  tempo- 
raiy  mistress. 

He  wrote  to  Madeline,  and  told  her  he  was  going 
from  home  for  a  few  days.  He  said  he  should  be 
travelling  the  greater  part  of  the  time,  so  it  should  be 
no  use  her  writing  to  him  until  his  return.     He  did 


carriston's  gift.  91 

not  reveal  the  object  of  his  journey.  "Were  Madeline 
to  know  it  was  to  choose  a  winter  residence  at  Cannes 
siie  would  be  filled  with  amazement,  and  the  innocent 
deception  he  was  still  keeping  up  would  not  be  carried 
through  to  the  romantic  end  which  he  pictured  to 
himself. 

The  day  before  he  stared  for  France  Madeline  wrote 
that  her  aunt  was  very  unwell,  but  said  nothing  as  to 
her  malady  causing  any  alarm.  Perhaps  Carriston 
thought  less  about  the  old  Scotch  widow  than  lier  re- 
lationship and  kindness  to  Miss  Rowan  merited.  He 
started  on  his  travels  without  any  forebodings  of  evil. 

His  journey  to  Cannes  and  back  was  hurried ;  he 
wasted  no  time  on  the  road,  but  was  delayed  for  two 
days  at  the  place  itself  before  he  could  make  final  ar- 
rangements with  the  owner  and  the  present  occupier 
of  the  house.  Thinking  he  was  going  to  start  every 
moment,  he  did  not  write  to  Madeline — at  the  rate  al 
which  he  meant  to  return,  a  letter  posted  in  England 
would  reach  her  almost  as  quickly  as  if  posted  at 
Cannes. 

He  reached  his  home,  wdiich  for  the  last  few  weeks 
had  been  Oxford,  and  found  two  letters  waiting  for 
him.  The  first,  dated  on  tlie  day  he  left  England,  was 
from  Madeline.  It  told  him  that  her  aunt's  illness  had 
suddenly  taken  a  fatal  turn — that  she  had  died  that 
day,  almost  without  warning.  The  second  letter  was 
anonymous. 

It  was  written  apparently  by  a  woman,  and  advised 
Mr.  Carr  to  look  sharply  after  his  lady-love  or  he  would 
find  himself  left  in  the  lurch.  The  writer  would  not 
be  surprised  to  hear  some  fine  day  that  she  had  eloped 
with  a  certain   gentleman  who   should  be  nameless. 


92  carriston's  gift. 

This  precious  epistle,  probably  an  emanation  of  femi« 
nine  spite,  Carriston  treated  as  it  deserved — lie  tore  it 
up  and  threw  the  pieces  to  the  wind. 

But  the  thought  of  Madeline  being  alone  at  that 
lonely  house  troubled  him  greatly.  The  dead  woman 
had  no  sons  or  daughters ;  all  the  anxiety  and  respon- 
sibility connected  with  her  affairs  would  fall  on  the 
poor  girl.  The  next  day  he  threw  himself  into  the 
Scotch  Express  and  started  for  her  far-away  home. 

On  arriving  there  he  found  it  occupied  only  by  the 
rough  farm  servants.  They  seemed  in  a  state  of  won- 
derment, and  volubly  questioned  Carriston  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  Madeline.  The  question  sent  a  chill 
of  fear  to  his  heart.  He  answ^ered  their  questions  by 
others,  and  soon  learned  all  they  had  to  communicate. 

Little  enough  it  was.  On  tlie  morning  after  the  old 
woman's  funeral  Madeline  had  gone  to  Callendar  to 
ask  the  advice  of  an  old  friend  of  her  aunt's  as  to 
what  steps  should  now  be  taken.  She  had  neither  been 
to  this  friend,  nor  had  she  returned  home.  She  had, 
however,  sent  a  message  that  she  must  go  to  London 
at  once,  and  would  write  from  there.  That  was  the 
last  heard  of  her — all  that  was  known  about  her. 

Upon  hearing  this  news  Carriston  became  a  prey  to 
the  acutest  terror — an  emotion  which  was  quite  inex- 
plicable to  the  honest  people,  his  informants.  The 
girl  had  gone,  but  she  had  sent  word  whither  she  had 
gone.  True,  they  did  not  know  the  reason  for  her  de- 
parture, so  sudden  and  without  luggage  of  any  descrip- 
tion ;  true,  she  had  not  written  as  promised,  but  no 
doubt  they  would  hear  from  her  to-morrow.  Carriston 
knew  better.  Without  revealing  the  extent  of  his 
fears  he  flew  back  to  Callendar.     Inquiries  at  the  rail' 


93 

way  station  informed  him  that  she  had  gone,  or  had  pur- 
posed going,  to  London  ;  but  whether  she  ever  reached 
it,  or  whether  any  trace  of  her  could  be  found  there, 
was  at  least  a  matter  of  doubt.  No  good  could  be 
gained  by  remaining  in  Scotland,  so  he  travelled  back 
at  once  to  town,  half-distracted,  sleepless,  and  racking 
bis  brain  to  know  where  to  look  for  her. 

"  She  has  been  decoyed  away,"  he  said  in  conclusion. 
"She  is  hidden,  imprisoned  somewhere.  And  I  know, 
as  well  as  if  he  told  me,  who  has  done  this  thing.  I 
can  trace  Kalph  Carriston's  cursed  hand  through  it  all.'" 

1  glanced  at  him  askance.  Tliis  morbid  suspicion  of 
his  cousin  amounted  almost  to  monomania.  Pie  had 
told  the  tale  of  Madeline's  disappearance  clearly  and 
tersely ;  but  when  he  began  to  account  for  it  his  the- 
ory was  a  wild  and  untenable  one.  However  much  he 
suspected  Ralph  Carriston  of  longing  to  stand  in  his 
shoes,  I  could  see  no  object  for  the  crime  of  w^iich  he 
accused  him,  that  of  decoying  away  Madeline  Rowan. 

"But  why  should  lie  have  done  this?"  I  asked.  "To 
prevent  your  marriage?  You  are  young;  he  must 
have  foreseen  that  you  would  marry  some  day.'^ 

Carriston  leaned  toward  me,  and  dropped  his  voice 
to  a  whisper. 

"This  is  his  reason,"  he  said  ;  "this  is  why  I  com^> 
to  you.  You  are  not  the  only  one  who  has  entirely 
misread  my  nature,  and  seen  a  strong  tendency  to  in- 
sanity in  ito  Of  course  I  know  that  you  are  all  wrong, 
but  I  know  that  Ralph  Carriston  has  stolen  my  love — 
stolen  her  because  he  thinks  and  hopes  that  her  loss 
will  drive  me  mad — perhaps  drive  me  to  kill  myself. 
T  we,n<^-  straight  to  him — I  have  just  come  from  him. 
Brand,  I  tell  you   chat   wnen  /  taxed  him  with  the 


94  caeriston's  gift. 

crime — when  I  raved  at  liim — when  I  threatened  te 
tear  the  hfe  out  of  him — his  cold,  wicked  eyes  leaped 
with  joj.  1  heard  him  mutter  between  his  teeth, 
'  Men  have  been  put  in  strait-waistcoats  for  less  than 
this.'  Then  I  knew  why  he  had  done  this.  I  curbed 
myself  and  left  him.  Most  likely  he  will  try  to  shut 
me  up  as  a  lunatic  ;  but  I  count  upon  your  protection 
— count  upon  your  help  to  find  my  love." 

That  any  man  could  be  guilty  of  such  a  subtle  re- 
finement of  crime  as  that  of  which  he  accused  his 
cousin  seemed  to  me,  if  not  impossible,  at  least  im- 
probable. But  as  at  present  there  was  no  doubt  about 
my  friend's  sanity  I  promised  my  aid  readily. 

''And  now,"  I  said,  "  my  dear  boy,  I  won't  hear  an- 
other woi"d  to-night.  Nothing  can  be  done  until  to- 
morrow ;  then  we  will  consult  as  to  what  steps  should 
be  taken.  Drink  this  and  go  to  bed ;  yes,  you  are  as 
sane  as  I  am,  but,  remember,  insomnia  soon  drives  the 
strongest  man  out  of  his  senses." 

I  poured  out  an  opiate.  He  drank  it  obediently. 
Before  I  left  him  for  the  night  I  saw  him  in  bed  and 
sleeping  a  heavy  sleep. 

VI. 

The  advantage  to  one  who  writes,  not  a  tale  of  im- 
agination, but  a  simple  record  of  events,  is  this :  He 
need  not  be  bound  bv  the  recoo^nized  canons  of  the 
story-telling  art — need  not  exercise  his  ingenuity  to 
mislead  his  reader — need  not  suppress  somethings  and 
lay  undue  stress  on  others  to  create  mysteries  to  be 
cleared  up  at  the  end  of  the  tale.  Therefore,  using 
the  privilege  of  a  plain  narrator,  I  shall  here  give  some 
account  of  what  became  of  Miss  Bowan,  as,  so  far  as 


oarriston's  gift.  95 

f  can  remember,  I  heard  it  some  time  afterward  fromi 
her  own  lips. 

The  old  Scotchwoman's  funeral  over,  and  those 
friends  who  had  been  present  departed,  Madeline  was 
left  in  the  little  farm-house  alone,  save  for  the  presence 
of  the  two  servants.  Several  kind  bodies  had  offered 
to  come  and  stay  with  her,  but  she  had  declined  the 
offers.  She  was  in  no  mood  for  company,  and  perhaj^s 
being  of  such  a  different  race  and  breed,  would  not 
have  found  much  comfort  in  the  rougli  homely  sympa- 
thy which  was  offered  to  her.  She  preferred  being 
alone  with  her  grief — grief  which  after  all  was  bound 
to  be  much  lightened  by  the  thought  of  her  own  ap- 
proaching happiness,  for  the  day  was  drawing  near 
when  her  lover  would  cross  the  border  and  bear  his 
bonny  bride  away.  She  felt  sure  that  she  would  not 
be  lonor  alone — that  the  moment  Carriston  heard  of  her 
aunt's  death  he  would  come  to  her  assistance.  In  such 
a  peaceful.  God-fearing  neighborhood  she  had  no  fear 
of  being  left  without  protection.  Moreover,  her  posi- 
tion in  the  house  was  well-defined.  The  old  woman, 
who  was  childless,  had  left  her  neice  all  of  which  she 
died  possessed.  So  Madeline  decided  to  wait  quietly 
until  she  heard  from  her  lover. 

Still  there  were  business  matters  to  be  attended  to, 
And  at  the  funeral  Mr.  Douglas,  of  Callendar,  the  ex- 
ecutor under  the  will,  had  suggested  that  an  early  in- 
terview would  be  desirable.  He  offered  to  drive  out 
to  the  little  farm  the  next  day,  but  Miss  Eowan,  who 
had  to  see  to  some  feminine  necessaries  which  could 
only  be  supplied  by  shops,  decided  that  she  would  come 
to  the  town  instead  of  troubling  Mr.  Douglas  to  dri*^« 
•0  far  out 


96  cakriston's  gift. 

Madeline,  in  spite  of  the  superstitious  element  in 
her  character,  was  a  brave  girl,  and  in  spite  of  her  re- 
fined style  of  beauty,  strong  and  healthy,  lilarly  honrs 
were  the  rule  in  that  humble  home,  so  before  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  she  was  ready  to  start  on  her 
drive  to  the  little  town.  At  first  she  thought  of  taking 
with  her  the  boy  who  did  the  rough  out-door  work; 
but  he  was  busy  about  something  or  other,  and  besides, 
was  a  garrulous  lad  who  would  be  certain  to  chatter 
the  whole  way,  u.  id  this  morning  Miss  Kowan  wanted 
no  companions  save  her  own  mingled  thoughts  of  sad- 
ness and  joy.  She  knew  every  inch  of  the  road  ;  she 
feared  no  evil ;  she  v/ould  be  home  asrain  Ions:  be- 
fore  nightfall ;  the  pony  was  quiet  and  sure-footed — so 
away  went  Madeline  in  the  strong  primitive  vehicle 
on  her  lonely  twelve  miles'  drive  through  the  fair 
scenery. 

She  passed  few  people  on  the  road.  Indeed,  she  re 
membered  meeting  no  one  except  one  or  two  pedestrian 
tourists,  who  like  sensible  men  were  doing  a  portion  of 
their  day's  task  in  the  early  morning.  I  have  no  doubt 
but  Miss  Rowan  seemed  to  them  a  passing  vision  of 
loveliness. 

But  wnen  she  was  a  mile  or  two  from  Callendar,  she 
saw  a  boy  on  a  pony.  The  boy,  who  must  have  known 
her  by  sight,  stopped  and  handed  her  a  telegram.  She 
had  to  pay  several  shillings  for  the  delivery,  or  intend- 
ed delivery  of  the  message,  so  far  from  the  station. 
The  boy  galloped  awaj^,  congratulating  himself  on 
having  been  spared  a  long  ride,  and  Miss  Rowan  tore 
open  the  envelope  left  in  her  hands. 

The  message  was  brief :  "  M.r.  Carr  is  seriously  ill. 
Come  at  once.     You  will  be  met  in  London," 


carriston's  gift.  91 

Madeline  did  not  scream  or  faint.  She  gave  one  lo^ 
moan  of  pain,  set  her  teeth,  and  with  the  face  ot  one 
in  a  dream  drove  as  quickly  as  she  could  to  Callendar, 
straight  to  the  railway  station. 

Fortunately,  or  rather  unfortunately,  slie  had  money 
with  her,  so  she  did  not  waste  time  in  going  to  Mr. 
Douglas.  In  spite  of  the  crushing  blow  she  had  re- 
ceived the  girl  had  all  her  wits  about  her.  A  train 
would  start  in  ten  minutes'  time.  She  took  her  ticket^ 
then  found  an  idler  outside  the  station,  and  paid  him 
to  take  the  pony  and  carriage  back  to  the  farm,  with 
the  message  as  repeated  to  Carriston. 

The  journey  passed  like  a  long  dream.  The  girl 
could  think  of  nothing  but  her  lover,  dying,  dying — 
perhaps  dead  before  she  could  reach  him.  The  miles 
flew  by  unnoticed ;  twilight  crept  on ;  the  carriage 
grew  dark ;  at  last — London  at  last !  Miss  Rowan 
stepped  out  on  the  broad  platform,  not  knowing  what 
to  do  or  where  to  turn.  Presently  a  tall  well-dressed 
man  came  up  to  her,  and  removing  his  hat,  addressed 
her  by  name.  The  promise  as  to  her  being  met  had 
been  kept. 

She  clasped  her  hands.  "  Tell  me — oh  tell  me,  he 
is  not  dead,"  she  cried. 

"  Mr.  Carr  is  not  dead.  He  is  ill,  very  ill — delirious 
and  calling  for  you." 

"  Where  is  he  ?     Oh  take  me  to  him  !" 

"  He  is  miles  and  miles  from  here — at  a  friend's 
house.  I  have  been  deputed  to  meet  you  and  to  accom- 
pany you,  if  you  feel  strong  enough  to  continue  the 
journey  at  once." 

"  Come,"  said  Madeline.     ''  Take  me  to  him." 

"  Your  luggage  ?"  asked  the  gentleman. 
7 


as 

"  I  have  none.     Come !" 

"  You  must  take  some  refreshment." 

"I  need  nothing.     Come!" 

The  gentleman  ghmced  at  his  watch.  "There  is 
just  time,"  he  said.  He  called  a  cab,  told  the  driver 
to  go  at  top  speed.  They  reached  Paddiiigton  just  in 
time  to  catch  the  mail. 

During  the  drive  across  London  Madeline  asked 
many  questions,  and  learned  from  her  companion  that 
Mr.  Carr  had  been  staying  for  a  day  or  two  at  a  friend's 
house  in  the  west  of  England.  That  yesterday  he 
had  fallen  from  his  horse  and  sustained  such  in  juries 
that  his  life  was  despaired  of.  He  had  been  contim 
ually  calling  for  Madeline.  They  had  found  her  ad- 
dress on  a  letter,  and  had  telegraphed  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble — for  which  act  Miss  Rowan  thanked  her  companion 
with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Her  conductor  did  not  say  much  of  his  own  accord, 
but  in  replying  to  her  questions  he  was  politely  sym- 
pathetic. She  thought  of  little  outside  the  fearful 
picture  wdiich  filled  every  corner  of  her  brain,  but 
from  her  conductor's  manner  received  the  impression 
that  he  was  a  medical  adviser  who  had  seen  the 
sufferer,  and  assisted  in  the  treatment  of  the  case. 
She  did  not  ask  his  name,  nor  did  he  reveal  it. 

At  Paddington  he  placed  her  in  a  ladies'  carriage 
and  left  her. 

He  was  a  smoker,  hesaid»  She  wondered  somewhat 
at  this  desertion.  Then  the  train  sped  down  West. 
At  the  large  stations  the  gentleman  came  to  her  and 
offered  her  refreshments.  Hunger  seemed  to  have 
left  her;  but  she  accepted  a  cup  of  tea  once  or  twice. 
At  last  sorrow,  fatigue,  and  weakness  produced  b^ 


carriston's  gift.  99 

Ruoh  a  prolonged  fast  had  their  natural  effect.  With 
the  tears  still  on  her  lashes  the  girl  fell  asleep,  and 
must  have  slept  for  many  miles :  a  sleep  unbroken  by 
stoppages  at  stations. 

Her  conductor  at  last  aroused  her.  He  stood  at  tho 
door  of  the  carriage.  "  We  must  get  out  here/'  he? 
said.  All  the  momentarily-forgotten  anguish  came 
back  to  her  as  she  stood  beside  him  on  the  ahnost  un- 
cccupied  platform. 

"Are  we  there  at  last?"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  we  have  still  a  long  drive  ;  would 
you  like  to  rest  first  ?" 

"No — no.  Come  on,  if  you  please.*'  She  spoke 
with  feverish  eagerness. 

The  man  bowed.     "  A  carriage  waits,"  he  said. 

Outside  the  station  was  a  carriage  of  some  sort, 
drawn  by  one  horse,  and  driven  by  a  man  muffled  up 
to  the  eyes.  It  was  still  night,  but  Madeline  fancied 
dawn  could  not  be  far  off.  Her  conductor  opened  the 
door  of  the  carriage  and  waited  for  her  to  enter. 

She  paused.  "Ask  him — that  man  must  know 
if—" 

"lam  most  remiss,"  said  the  gentleman.  He  ex- 
changed a  few  words  with  the  driver,  and  coming 
back,  told  Madeline  that  Mr.  Carr  was  still  alive,  sen- 
sible, and  expecting  her  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  please,  please  drive  fast,"  said  the  poor  girl, 
springing  into  the  carriage.  The  gentleman  seated 
himself  beside  her,  and  for  a  long  time  they  drove  on 
in  silence.  At  last  they  stopped.  The  dawn  was  just 
glimmering.  They  alighted  in  front  of  a  house.  The 
door  was  open.  Madeline  entered  swiftly.  "Which 
way — which  way  ?"  she  asked.     She  was  too  agitated 


100  oaeriston's  gift. 

to  notice  any  surroundings  ;  her  one  wish  was  to  reach 
her  lover. 

"Allow  me,'^  said  the  conductor,  passing  her. 
"  This  way  ;  please  follow  me."  He  went  up  a  short 
flight  of  stairs,  then  paused,  and  opened  a  door  quietly. 
He  stood  aside  for  the  girl  to  enter.  The  room  was 
dimly  lit,  and  contained  a  bed  with  drawn  curtains. 
Madeline  flew  past  her  travelling  companion,  and  as 
she  threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  upon 
which  she  expected  to  see  the  helpless  and  shattered 
form  of  the  man  she  loved,  heard,  or  fancied  she 
heard,  the  door  locked  behind  her. 

YII. 

Caeeiston  slept  on  late  into  the  next  day.  Know- 
ing that  every  moment  of  bodily  and  mental  rest  was 
a  precious  boon  to  him,  I  left  him  undist^irbed.  He 
was  still  fast  asleep  when,  about  mid-day,  a  gentleman 
called  upon  me.  He  sent  up  no  card,  and  I  supposed 
he  came  to  consult  me  professionally. 

The  moment  he  entered  my  room  I  recognized  him. 
He  was  the  thin-lipped,  gentlemanly  person  whom  I 
had  met  on  my  journey  to  Bournemouth  last  spring — 
the  man  who  had  seemed  so  much  impressed  by  my 
views  on  insanitj^,  and  had  manifested  such  interest  in 
the  description  I  had  given — without  mentioning  any 
name — of  Carriston's  peculiar  mind. 

I  should  have  at  once  claimed  acquaintanceship  with 
my  visitor,  but  before  I  could  speak  he  advanced,  and 
apologized  gracefully  for  his  intrusion. 

'•You  will  forgive  it,"  he  added,  "when  I  tell  you 
my  name  is  Ralph  Carriston." 

Remembering  our  chance  conversation,  the  though! 


oarriston's  gift.  101 

that,  after  all,  Charles  Carriston's  wild  suspicion  was 
well-founded,  flashed  throuo-h  me  like  lio^htninor.  Mv 
great  hope  was  that  my  visitor  might  not  remember 
my  face  as  I  remembered  his.  I  bowed  coldly  but 
said  nothing. 

"I  believe.  Dr.  Brand,"  he  continued,  "you  have  a 
young  relative  of  mine  at  present  staying  with  you?" 

''Yes,  Mr.  Carriston  is  my  guest,"  I  answered. 
"We  are  old  friends." 

"  Ah,  I  did  not  know  that.  I  do  not  remember 
having  heard  him  mention  your  name  as  a  friend. 
But  as  it  is  so,  no  one  knows  better  than  you  do  the 
unfortunate  state  of  his  health.  How  do  you  find  him 
to-day — violent  ?" 

I  pretended  to  ignore  the  man's  meaning,  and  an- 
swered smilingly,  "  Violence  is  the  last  thing  I  should 
look  for.  He  is  tired  out  and  exhausted  by  travel, 
and  is  in  great  distress.  That,  I  believe,  is  the  whole 
of  his  complaint." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  to  be  sure,  poor  boy  !  His  sweetheart  has 
ieft  him,  or  something.  But  as  a  doctor  you  must 
know  that  his  mental  condition  is  not  quite  what  it 
should  be.  His  friends  are  very  anxious  about  him. 
They  fear  that  a  little  restraint — temporary,  I  hope — 
must  be  put  upon  his  actions.  I  called  to  ask  your  ad- 
vice and  aid." 

"  In  what,  Mr.  Carriston  ?" 

"In  this.  A  young  man  can't  be  left  free  to  go 
about  threatening  his  friends'  lives.  I  have  brought 
Dr.  Daley  with  me ;  you  know  him,  of  course.  He  is 
below  in  my  carriage.  I  will  call  him  up,  with  your 
permission.  He  could  then  see  poor  Charles,  and  the 
needful  certificate  could  be  signed  by  you  two  doctorg.^ 


102  cakriston's  gift. 

"Mr.  Carriston,"  I  said  decidedly,  "let  me  tel)  you 
in  the  plainest  words  that  your  cousin  is  at  present  as 
fully  in  possession  of  his  wits  as  you  are.  Dr.  Daley, 
whoever  he  may  be,  could  sign  no  certificate,  and  in 
our  day  no  asylum  would  dare  to  keep  Mr.  Carriston 
within  its  walls." 

An  unpleasant  sinister  look  crossed  my  listener's 
face,  but  his  voice  still  remained  bland  and  suave.  "  I 
am  sorry  to  differ  from  you,  Dr.  Brand,"  he  said,  "  but 
I  know  him  better  than  you  do.  I  have  seen  him  as 
you  have  never  yet  seen  him.  Only  last  night  he 
came  to  me  in  a  frantic  state.  I  expected  every  mo- 
ment he  would  make  a  murderous  attack  on  me." 

"  Perhaps  he  fancied  he  had  some  reasons  for  anger," 
I  said. 

Halph  Carriston  looked  at  me  with  those  cold  eyes 
of  which  his  cousin  had  spoken.  "  If  the  boy  has 
succeeded  in  converting  you  to  any  of  his  delusions  I 
can  only  say  that  doctors  are  more  credulous  than  I 
fancied.  But  the  question  is  not  worth  arguing.  You 
decline  to  assist  me,  so  I  must  do  without  you.  Good- 
morning,  Dr.  Brand." 

He  left  the  room  as  gracefully  as  he  had  entered  it. 
I  remained  in  a  state  of  doubt.  It  was  curious  that 
Ralph  Carriston  turned  out  to  be  the  man  whom  I  had 
met  in  the  train  ;  but  the  evidence  offered  by  the 
coincidence  was  not  enough  to  convict  him  of  the 
crime  of  endeavoring  to  drive  his  cousin  mad  by 
such  a  far-fetched  stratagem  as  the  inveigling  away 
of  Madeline  Rowan.  Besides,  even  in  wishing  tc 
prove  Charles  Carriston  mad  he  had  much  to  sayou 
his  side.  Supposing  him  to  be  innocent  of  having  ab* 
ducted  Madeline,  Carriston's  violent  behavior  on  the 


carriston's    gift.  103 

preceding  evening  must  have  seemed  very  much  like 
insanity.  In  spite  of  the  aversion  with  which  Ralph 
Carriston  inspired  me,  I  scarcely  knew  which  side  to 
believe. 

Carriston  still  slept;  so  when  I  went  out  on  my  af- 
iternoon  rounds  I  left  a  note,  begging  him  to  remain  in 
the  house  until  my  return.  Then  I  found  him  up, 
dressed,  and  looking  much  more  like  himself.  When 
I  entered,  dinner  was  on  the  table;  so  not  until  that 
meal  was  over  could  we  talk  unrestrainedly  upon  the 
subject  which  was  uppermost  in  both  our  minds. 

As  soon  as  we  were  alone  I  turned  toward  my  guest. 
"And  now,''  I  said,  *Sve  must  settle  what  to)  do. 
There  seems  to  me  to  be  but  one  course  open.  You 
have  plenty  of  money,  so  your  best  plan  is  to  engage 
skilled  police  assistance.  Young  ladies  can't  be  spir- 
ited away  like  this  without  leaving  a  trace." 

To  my  surprise  Carriston  flatly  objected  to  this 
course.  "No,"  he  said,  'T  shall  not  go  to  the  police. 
The  man  who  took  her  away  has  placed  her  where  no 
police  can  find  her.  I  must  find  her  myself." 
"Find  her  yourself!  Why,  it  may  be  months,  years, 
before  you  do  that !  Good  heavens,  Carriston !  She 
may  be  murdered,  or  worse — " 

"I  shall  know  if  any  further  evil  happens  to  her — 
then  I  shall  kill  Ralph  Carriston." 

"But  you  tell  me  you  have  no  clew  whatever  to 
trace  her  by.  Do  talk  plainly.  Tell  me  all  or 
nothing." 

Carriston  smiled  very  faintly.  "No  clew  that  you, 
at  any  rate,  will  believe  in,"  he  said.  "But  I  know 
this  much,  she  is  a  prisoner  somewhere.  She  is  un- 
happy, but  not,  as  yet,  ill-treated.     Heavens!  do  you 


104  cabrjston's  gift. 

think  if  I  did  not  knew  this  I  should  keep  my  senses 
for  an  hour  ?" 

"How  can  you  possibly  know  it?" 

"  By  that  gift — that  extra  sense  or  whatever  it  is-^- 
which  you  deride.  I  knew  it  would  come  to  me  some 
day,  but  I  little  thought  how  I  should  welcome  it.  I 
know  that  in  some  way  I  shall  find  her  by  it.  I  tell 
you  I  have  already  seen  her  three  times.  I  may  see 
her  again  at  any  moment  when  the  strange  fit  comes 
over  me." 

All  this  fantastic  nonsense  was  spoken  so  simply  and 
with  such  an  air  of  conviction  that  once  more  my  sus- 
picions as  to  the  state  of  his  mind  were  aroused.  In 
spite  of  the  brave  answers  which  I  had  given  Mr. 
Ralph  Carriston,  I  felt  that  common-sense  was  unde- 
niably on  his  side." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  mean  by  your  strange  fit,"  I 
said,  resolved  to  find  out  the  nature  of  Carriston's  fan- 
cies or  hallucinations.  "  Is  it  a  kind  of  trance  you  fall 
into  ?" 

He  seemed  loath  to  give  any  information  on  the 
subject,  but  I  pressed  him  for  an  answer. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  last.  "  It  must  be  a  kind  of 
trance.  An  indescribable  feeling  comes  over  me.  I 
know  that  my  eyes  are  fixed  on  some  object — presently 
that  object  vanishes,  and  I  see  Madeline." 

"  How  do  you  see  her  ?" 

"  She  seems  to  stand  in  a  blurred  circle  of  light  aa 
cast  by  a  magic  lantern.  That  is  the  only  way  that  I  can 
describe  it.  But  her  figure  is  plain  and  clear — she 
might  be  close  to  me.  The  carpet  on  which  she  stands 
I  can  see,  the  chair  on  which  she  sits,  the  table  on 
which  she  leans  her  hand,  anything  she  touches  I  can 


carkiston's  gift.  105 

see  ;  but  no  more.  I  have  seen  her  talking.  I  knew 
she  was  entreating  some  one,  but  that  some  one  was 
invisible.  Yet,  if  she  touched  that  person,  the  virtue 
of  her  touch  would  enable  me  to  see  him." 

So  far  as  I  could  see,  Carriston's  case  appeared  to  be 
one  of  over-wrought,  or  unduly-stimulated  imagina- 
tion. His  I  had  always  considered  to  be  a  mind  of 
the  most  peculiar  construction.  In  his  present  state  of 
love,  grief,  and  suspense  these  hallucinations  might 
come  in  the  same  way  in  which  dreams  come.  For  a 
little  while  I  sat  in  silence,  considering  how  I  could 
best  combat  with  and  dispel  his  remarkable  delusions. 
Before  I  had  arrived  at  any  decision  I  was  called  away 
to  see  a  patient.  I  was  but  a  short  time  engaged. 
Then  I  returned  to  Carriston,  intending  to  continue 
my  inquiries. 

Upon  re-entering  the  room  I  found  him  sitting,  as  I 
had  left  him — directly  opposite  to  the  door.  His  face 
was  turned  fully  toward  me,  and  I  trembled  as  I  caught 
sight  of  it.  He  was  leaning  forward ;  his  hands  on 
the  table-cloth,  his  whole  frame  rigid,  his  eyes  star- 
ing in  one  direction,  yet,  I  knew,  capable  of  seeing 
nothing  that  I  eould  see.  He  seemed  even  oblivious 
to  sound,  for  I  entered  the  room  and  closed  the  door 
behind  me  without  causing  him  to  change  look  or  posi- 
tion. The  moment  I  saw  the  man  I  knew  that  he  had 
been  overtaken  by  what  he  called  the  strano^e  lit. 

My  first  impulse — a  natural  one — was  to  arouse  him; 
but  second  thoughts  told  me  that  this  was  an  opportu- 
nity for  studying  his  disease  which  should  not  be  lost 
• — I  felt  that  I  could  call  it  by  no  other  name  than 
disease — so  I  proceeded  to  make  a  systematic  examina- 
tion of  his  symptoms. 


106  careiston's  gift. 

I  leaned  across  the  table ;  and,  with  my  face  about  a 
foot  from  hisj  looked  straight  into  his  eyes.  They  be- 
trayed no  sign  of  recognition — no  knowledge  of  my 
presence.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  could  not  divest  my- 
self of  the  impression  that  they  were  looking  through 
me.  The  pupils  were  greatly  dilated.  The  lids  were 
wide  apart.  I  lighted  a  taper  and  held  it  before  them, 
but  could  see  no  expansion  of  the  iris.  It  was  a  case, 
I  confess,  entirely  beyond  my  comprehension.  I  had 
no  experience  which  might  serve  as  a  guide  as  to  what 
was  the  best  course  to  adopt.  All  I  could  do  was  to 
stand  and  watch  carefully  for  any  change. 

Save  for  his  regular  breathing  and  a  sort  of  convul- 
sive twitching  of  his  fingers,  Carriston  might  have 
been  a  corpse  or  a  statue.  His  face  could  scarcely 
grow  paler  than  it  had  been  before  the  attack.  Alto- 
gether, it  was  an  uncomfortable  sight :  a  creepy  sight 
— this  motionless  man,  utterly  regardless  of  all  that 
went  on  around  him,  and  seeing,  or  giving  one  the 
idea  that  he  saw  something  far  away.  I  sighed  as  I 
looked  at  the  strange  spectacle,  and  foresaw  what  the 
end  must  surely  be.  But  although  I  longed  for  him  to 
awake,  I  determined  on  this  occasion  to  let  the  trance, 
or  fit,  run  its  full  course,  that  I  might  notice  in  what 
manner  and  how  soon  consciousness  returned. 

I  must  have  waited  and  watched  some  ten  minutes 
— ^minutes  which  seemed  to  me  interminable.  At  last 
I  saw  the  lips  quiver,  the  lids  flicker  once  or  twice,  and 
eventually  close  wearily  over  the  eyes.  The  unnatu- 
ral tension  of  every  muscle  seemed  to  relax,  and,  sigh- 
ing deeply,  and  apparently  quite  exlumsted,  Carriston 
sank  back  into  his  chair  with  beads  of  perspiratioD 
forming  on  his  white  brow.     The  fit  was  over. 


107 

In  a  moment  I  was  at  his  side  and  forcing  a  glass  of 
wine  down  his  throat.  He  looked  up  at  me  and  spoke. 
His  voice  was  faint,  but  his  words  were  quite  collected 

^' I  have  seen  her  again,"  he  said.  "  She  is  well; 
but  so  unhappy.  I  saw  her  kneel  down  and  pray. 
She  stretched  her  beautiful  arms  out  to  me.  And  yet 
I  know  not  where  to  look  for  her — my  poor  love  !  my 
poor  love !" 

I  waited  until  I  thought  he  had  sufficiently  recovered 
from  hio  exhaustion  to  talk  without  injurious  conse- 
quences. "  Carriston,"  I  said,  "  let  me  ask  you  one 
question :  Are  these  trances  or  visions  voluntary  or 
not?" 

He  reflected  for  a  few  moments.  "  I  can't  quite 
tell  you,"  he  said ;  "  or,  rather,  I  would  put  in  this 
way.  I  do  not  think  I  can  exercise  my  power  at  will ; 
but  I  can  feel  when  the  fit  is  coming  on  me,  and,  I  be- 
lieve, can  if  I  choose  stop  myself  from  yielding  to  it." 

''  Yery  well.  Now  listen.  Promise  me  you  will 
fight  against  these  seizures  as  much  as  you  can.  If 
you  don't  you  will  be  raving  mad  in  a  month." 

^'  I  can't  promise  that,"  said  Carriston,  quietly. 
"  See  her  at  times  I  must,  or  I  shall  die.  But  I 
promise  to  yield  as  seldom  as  may  be.  I  know,  as  well 
as  you  do,  that  the  very  exhaustion  I  no  iv  feel  must  be 
injurious  to  any  one." 

In  truth,  he  looked  utterly  worn  out.  Yery  much 
dissatisfied  with  his  concession,  the  best  I  could  get 
from  him,  I  sent  him  to  bed,  knowing  that  natural 
rest,  if  he  could  get  it,  would  do  more  than  anything 
else  toward  restoring  a  healthy  tone  to  his  mind. 


108  oarriston's  gift. 


vin. 

Although  Carriston  stated  that  he  ea,me  to  me  for 
aid,  and,  it  may  be,  for  protection,  he  manifested  the 
greatest  reluctance  in  following  any  advice  I  offered 
him.  The  obstinacy  of  his  refusal  to  obtain  the 
assistance  of  the  police  placed  me  in  a  predicament. 
That  Madeline  Rowan  had  really  disappeared  I  was,  of 
course,  compelled  to  believe.  It  might  even  be  possi- 
ble that  she  was  kept  against  her  will  in  some  place  of 
concealment.  In  such  a  case  it  behooved  us  to  take 
proper  steps  to  trace  her.  Her  welfare  should  not 
depend  upon  the  hallucinations  and  eccentric  ideas  of 
a  man  half  out  of  his  senses  with  love  and  grief.  I 
all  but  resolved,  even  at  the  risk  of  forfeiting  Oarris- 
ton's friendship,  to  put  the  whole  matter  in  die  hands 
of  the  police,  unless  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two  we 
heard  from  the  girl  herself,  or  Carriston  suggested 
gome  better  plan. 

Curiously  enough,  although  refusing  to  be  guided  by 
me,  he  made  no  suggestion  on  his  own  account.  He 
was  racked  by  fear  and  suspense,  yet  his  only  idea  of 
solving  difficulties  seemed  to  be  that  of  waiting.  He 
did  nothing.  He  simply  waited,  as  if  he  expected  that 
chance  would  bring  what  he  should  have  been  search- 
ing for  high  and  low. 

Some  days  passed  before  I  could  get  a  tardy  consent 
that  aid  should  be  sought.  Even  then  he  w^ould  not  go 
to  the  proper  quarter ;  but  he  allow^ed  me  to  summon 
to  our  councils  a  man  who  advertised  himself  as  being 
a  private  detective.  This  man,  or  one  of  his  men, 
came  at  our  call,  and  heard  what  was  wanted  of  him. 
Carriston  reluctantly  gave  him  ©ne  of  Madeline's  phq- 


cakriston's  gift.  109 

tographs.  He  also  told  him  that  only  by  watching  an^ 
spying  on  Ralph  Carriston's  every  action  conld  he  hops 
to  obtain  tlie  clew.  I  did  not  much  like  the  course 
adopted,  nor  did  I  like  the  look  of  the  man  to  whom 
the  inquiry  was  intrusted ;  but  at  any  rate  something 
was  being  done. 

A  week  passed  witliout  ary  news  from  our  agent. 
Carriston,  in  truth,  did  not  seem  to  expect  any.  I  be- 
lieve he  only  employed  the  man  in  deference  to  my 
wishes.  He  moved  about  the  house  in  a  disconsolate 
fashion.  I  had  not  told  him  of  my  interview  with  his 
cousin,  but  had  cautioned  him  on  the  rare  occasions 
upon  which  he  went  out  of  doors  to  avoid  speaking  to 
strangers,  and  my  servants  had  strict  instructions  to 
prevent  any  one  coming  in  and  taking  my  guest  by 
surprise. 

For  I  had  during  those  days  opened  a  confidential 
inquiry  on  my  own  account.  I  wanted  to  learn 
something  about  this  Mr.  Ralph  Carriston.  So  I  asked 
a  man  who  knew  everybody  to  find  out  all  about  him. 

He  reported  that  Ralph  Carriston  was  a  man  well 
known  about  London.  He  was  married  and  had  a 
house  in  Dorsetshire ;  but  the  greater  part  of  his  time 
was  spent  in  town.  Once  he  was  supposed  to  be  well- 
oif  ;  but  now  it  was  the  general  opinion  that  every  acre 
he  owned  was  mortgaged,  and  that  he  was  much  pressed 
for  money.  ''But,"  my  informant  said,  "there  is  but 
one  life  between  him  and  the  reversion  to  large  estates, 
and  that  life  is  a  poor  one.  I  believe  even  now  there 
is  talk  about  the  man  who  stands  in  his  way  being  mad. 
If  so,  Ralph  Carriston  will  get  the  management  of 
everything." 

After  this  news  I  felt  it  more  than  ever  needful  to 


110 

keep  a  watdiful  eye  on  my  friend.  So  far  as  I  kne\v 
there  had  been  no  recurrence  of  the  trance,  and  I  be. 
gan  to  hope  that  proper  treatment  would  effect  a  com 
plete  cure,  when,  to  my  great  alarm  and  annoyance, 
Carriston,  while  sitting  with  me,  suddenly  and  without 
warning  fell  into  the  same  strange  state  of  body  and 
mind  as  previously  described.  This  time  he  was  sit- 
ting in  another  part  of  the  room.  After  watching 
him  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  just  as  I  was  making  up 
my  mind  to  arouse  him  and  scold  him  thoroughly  for 
his  folly,  he  sprung  to  his  feet,  and  shouting,  "Let her 
go!  Loose  her,  I  say!"  rushed  violently  across  the 
room — so  violently,  that  I  had  barely  time  to  interpose 
and  prevent  him  from  coming  into  contact  with  the 
opposite  wall. 

Upon  returning  to  his  senses  he  told  me,  with  great 
excitement,  that  he  had  again  seen  Madeline ;  more- 
over, this  time  he  had  seen  a  man  with  her — a  man 
who  had  placed  his  hand  upon  her  wrist  and  kept  it 
there ;  and  so,  according  to  Carriston's  wild  reasoning, 
became,  on  account  of  the  contact,  visible  to  him. 

He  told  me  he  had  watched  them  for  some  moments, 
until  the  man,  tightening  his  grip  on  the  girl's  arm, 
endeavored,  he  thought,  to  lead  her  or  induce  her  to 
follow  him  somewhere.  At  this  juncture,  unaware  that 
he  was  gazing  at  a  vision,  he  had  rushed  to  her  assis- 
tance in  the  frantic  way  I  have  described — then  he 
i*woke. 

He  also  told  me  he  had  studied  the  man's  features 
and  general  appearance  most  carefully  with  a  view  to 
future  recognition.  All  these  ridiculous  statements 
were  made  as  he  made  the  former  ones,  with  the  air  of 
one  relating  simple,  undeniable  facts — one  spsaking 


Ill 

the  plain,  unvarnished  truth^  and  expecting  full  cre- 
dence to  be  given  to  his  words. 

It  was  too  absurd  !  too  sad !  It  was  evident  to  me 
that  the  barrier  between  his  hallucinations,  dreams, 
visions,  or  what  he  chose  to  call  them,  and  pure  in- 
canity,  was  now  a  very  slight  and  fragile  one.  But  be- 
fore I  gave  up  his  case  as  hopeless  I  determined  to 
make  another  strong  appeal  to  his  common-sense.  I 
told  him  of  his  cousin's  visit  to  me — of  his  intentions 
and  proposition.  I  begged  him  to  consider  what  con- 
sequences his  extraordinary  beliefs  and  extravagant 
actions  must  eventually  entaiL  He  listened  attentively 
and  calmly. 

"  You  see  now,"  he  said,  "how  right  I  was  in  attrib- 
uting all  this  to  Ealph  Carriston — how  right  I  was  to 
come  to  you,  a  doctor  of  standing,  who  can  vouch  for 
my  sanity." 

"  Vouch  for  your  sanity  !  How  can  I  wlien  you  sit 
here  and  talk  such  ai-rant  nonsense,  and  expect  me  to 
believe  it?  When  you  jump  from  yourchairand  rusli 
madly  at  some  visionary  foe?  Sane  as  you  may  be  in 
all  else,  any  evidence  I  could  give  in  yoni*  favoi-  nir.st 
break  down  in  cross-examination  if  an  inkling  of  rliese 
things  got  about.  Come,  Carriston.  he  reasonable,  and 
prove  your  saniry  by  setting  about  ihis  search  for  Miss 
Rowan  in  a  proper  way." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  walked  up  and  down  tlie 
room  apparently  in  deep  rhoughr.  My  words  seemed 
to  have  had  no  effect  upon  lunt.  Presenrly  he  seared 
himcelf  ;  and,  as  if  to  avoid  returning  to  the  arginnent, 
drew  a  book  at  hazai-d  from  my  shelves  and  began  to 
read.  He  opened  the  volume  at  random,  hut  after 
reading  a  few  lines  seemed    struck  by  something  that 


112 

met  his  eyes,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  deeply  im- 
mei-sed  in  the  contents  of  the  book.  I  glanced  at 
it  to  see  what  had  so  awakened  his  interest.  By  a 
curious  fatality  he  had  chosen  a  book  the  very  worst 
for  him  in  his  present  frame  of  mind — Gilchrist's  re- 
cently published  life  of  William  Blake,  that  masterly 
memoir  of  a  man  who  was  on  certain  points  as  mad  as 
Carriston  himself.  I  was  about  to  remonstrate,  when 
he  laid  down  the  volume  and  turned  to  me. 

"Yarley, the  painter,"  he  said,  "was  a  firm  believer 
in  Blake's  visions." 

"  Yarley  was  a  bigger  fool  than  Blake,"  I  retorted. 
"  Fancy  his  sitting  down  and  watching  his  clever  but 
jnad  friend  draw  spectral  heads,  and  believing  them  to 
be  genuine  portraits  of  dead  kings  whose  forms  con- 
descended to  appear  to  Blake  !  " 

A  sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike  Carriston. 
"  Will  you  give  me  some  paper  and  chalk  ?"  he  asked. 
Upon  being  furnished  with  these  materials  he  seated 
himself  at  the  table  and  began  to  draw.  At  least  a 
dozen  times  he  sketched,  with  his  usual  rapidit}^,  some 
object  or  another,  and  a  dozen  times,  after  a  moment's 
consideration,  threw  each  sketch  aside  with  an  air  of 
disappointment  and  began  a  fresh  one.  At  last  one  of 
ills  attempts  seemed  to  come  up  to  his  requirements. 
^'I  have  it  now,  exactly!"  he  cried  with  joy — even 
triumph — in  his  voice.  He  spent  some  time  in  put- 
ting finishing  touches  to  the  successful  sketch,  then  he 
handed  me  the  paper. 

"  That  is  the  man  I  saw  just  now  with  Madeline,"  he 
said.  ''  When  I  find  him  I  shall  find  her."  He  spoke 
with  all  sincerity  and  conviction.  I  looked  at  the  paper 
with,  I  am  bound  to  say,  a  great  amount  of  curiosity. 


113 

"No  matter  from  what  visionary  source  Carriston  had 
drawn  his  inspiration,  his  sketch  was  vigorous  and  nat' 
ural  enough.  I  have  already  mentioned  his  wonderful 
power  of  drawing  portraits  from  memory,  so  was  wilL 
ing  to  grant  that  he  might  have  reproduced  the  outline 
of  some  face  which  had  somewhere  struck  him.  Yet 
why  should  it  have  been  this  one  ?  His  drawing  repre^ 
sented  the  three  quarter  face  of  a  man — an  ordinary  man 
— apparently  between  forty  and  fifty  years  of  age.  It 
was  a  coarse-featured,  ill-favored  face,  with  a  ragged 
ruff  of  hair  round  the  chin.  It  was  not  the  face  of  a 
gentleman,  nor  even  the  face  of  a  gentle-nurtured  man; 
and  the  artist,  by  a  few  cunning  strokes,  had  made  it 
wear  a  crafty  and  sullen  look.  The  sketch,  as  I  write 
this,  lies  before  me,  so  that  I  am  not  speaking  from 
memory. 

Now,  there  are  some  portraits  of  which,  without 
having  seen  the  original,  we  say,  "  What  splendid  like- 
nesses these  must  be."  It  was  so  with  Carriston's 
sketch.  Looking  at  it  you  felt  sure  it  was  exactly  like 
the  man  whom  it  was  intended  to  represent.  So  that, 
with  the  certain  amount  of  art  knowledge  which  I  am 
at  least  supposed  to  possess,  it  was  hard  for  me,  after 
examining  the  drawing  and  recognizing  the  true  artist's 
touch  in  every  line,  to  bring  myself  to  accept  the  fact 
that  it  was  but  the  outcome  of  a  diseased  imagination. 
As,  at  this  very  moment,  I  glance  at  that  drawing,  I 
scarcely  blame  myself  for  the  question  that  faintly 
frames  itself  in  my  innermost  heart.  ''  Could  it  be 
possible — could  there  be  in  certain  organizations  pow- 
ers not  yet  known — not  yet  properly  investigated  ?" 

My  thought,  supposing  such  a  thought  was  ever 
there — was  not  d^'scouraged  by  Carviston,  who,  speaking 
8  .     « 


114 

as  if  his  faith  in  the  bodily  existence  of  the  man  who«€ 
portrait  hiv  in  my  liand  was  unassaihible,  said, 

"  I  noticed  that  his  general  appearance  was  that  of  a 
countryman — an  English  peasant;  so  in  the  country  I 
shall  find  my  love.  Moreover,  it  will  be  easy  to  iden. 
tify  the  man,  as  the  top  joint  is  missing  from  the 
middle  finger  of  his  right  hand.  As  it  lay  on  Made^ 
line's  arm  I  noticed  that." 

I  argued  with  him  no  more.  I  felt  that  words 
would  be  but  wasted. 

IX. 

A  DAY  or  two  after  I  had  witnessed  what  I  must 
call  Carriston's  second  seizure  we  were  favored  with  a 
visit  from  the  man  whose  services  we  had  secured  to 
trace  Madeline.  Since  he  had  received  his  instructions 
we  had  heard  nothing  of  his  proceeding  until  he  now 
called  to  report  progress  in  person.  Carriston  had 
not  expressed  the  slightest  curiosity  as  to  where  the 
man  was  or  what  he  was  about.  Probably  he  looked 
upon  the  employment  of  this  private  detective  as  noth- 
ing more  useful  than  a  salve  to  my  conscience.  That 
Madeline  was  only  to  be  found  throngh  the  power 
which  he  professed  to  hold  of  seeing  her  in  his  vision* 
was,  I  felt  certain,  becoming  a  rooted  belief  of  his. 
Whenever  I  expressed  my  surprise  that  our  agent 
had  brought  or  sent  no  information,  Carriston  shrug- 
ged his  shoulders,  and  assured  me  that  from  the  first 
he  knew  the  man's  researches  would  be  fruitless. 
However,  the  fellow  had  called  at  last,  and,  I  hoped, 
had  brought  us  good  news. 

He  was  a  glib  tongned  man,  who  spoke  in  a  confi' 
dent,  matter-of-fact  way.     When  he  s^w  us  He  rubbed 


carriston's  gift.  115 

hie  hands  as  one  who  liad  hronght  affairs  to  a  successful 
issue,  and  now  meant  to  reap  praise  and  other  rewai'ds. 
His  whole  bearini^  told  me  he  had  made  an  important 
discovery  ;  so  I  begged  him  to  be  seated,  and  give  us 
liis  news. 

Carriston  gave  him  a  careless  glance,  and  stood  at 
8ome  little  distance  from  us.  He  looked  as  if  he 
thought  the  impending  communication  scarcely  worth 
the  trouble  of  listening  to.  He  might,  indeed,  from 
his  looks,  have  been  the  most  disinterested  person  of 
the  three.     He  even  left  me  to  do  the  questioning. 

"  Now,  then,  Mr.  Sharpe,"  I  said,  "  let  us  hear  if 
you  have  earned  your  monej^" 

"I  think  so,  sir,"  replied  Sharpe,  looking  curiously 
at  Carriston,  who,  strange  to  say,  heard  this  answer 
with  supreme  indifference. 

"  I  think  I  may  say  I  have,  sir,"  continued  the  detec- 
tive— "  that  is  if  the  gentlemen  can  identify  these 
articles  as  being  the  young  lady's  property." 

Thereupon  he  produced  from  a  thick  letter-case  a 
ribbon  in  which  was  stuck  a  silver  pin,  mounted  with 
Scotch  pebbles,  an  ornament  that  I  remembered  having 
seen  Madeline  wear.  Mr.  Sharpe  handed  them  to  Car- 
riston. He  examined  them,  and  I  saw  his  cheeks  flush 
and  his  eyes  grow  bright. 

"How  did  you  come  by  this?"  he  cried,  pointing  to 
the  silver  ornament. 

"  I'll  tell  you  presently,  sir.     Do  you  recognize  it  ?" 

*'  I  gave  it  to  Miss  Rowan  myself." 

"  Then  we  are  on  the  right  track,"  I  cried,  joyfully. 
"  Go  on,  Mr.  Sharpe." 

"Yes,  gentlemen,  we  are  certainly  on  the  right  track; 
but  after  all,  it  isn't  my  fault  if  the  track  don't  lead  ex- 


116  carriston's  gift. 

actly  where  you  wish.  You  see,  when  I  heard  of  this 
mysterious  disappearance  of  the  lady,  I  began  to  con- 
coct my  own  theory.  I  said  to  myself,  when  a  young 
and  beautiful — " 

"  Confound  your  theories  !"  cried  Carriston  fiercely. 
"  Go  on  with  your  tale." 

The  man  gave  his  interrupter  a  spiteful  glance. 
''Well,  sir,"  he  said,  "as  you  gave  me  strict  instruc- 
tions to  watch  a  certain  gentleman  closely,  I  obeyed 
those  instructions,  of  course,  although  I  knew  I  was  on 
a  fool's  errand." 

"  Will  you  go  on  ?"  cried  Carriston.  "  If  you  know 
where  Miss  Rowan  is,  say  so ;  your  money  will  be 
paid  you  the  moment  I  find  her." 

"I  don't  say  I  exactly  know  where  to  find  the  lady, 
but  I  can  soon  know  if  you  wish  me  to." 

"  Tell  your  tale  your  own  way,  but  as  shortly  as, 
possible,"  I  said,  seeing  that  my  excitable  friend  was 
preparing  for  another  outburst. 

"  I  found  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  keeping 
watch  on  the  gentleman  you  mentioned,  sir,  so  I  went 
to  Scotland  and  tried  back  from  there.  As  soon  as  I 
worked  on  my  own  lay  I  found  out  all  about  it.  The 
lady  went  from  Callendar  to  Edinburgh,  from  Edin- 
burgh to  London,  from  London  to  Folkestone,  and 
from  Folkestone  to  Boulong." 

I  glanced  at  Carriston.  All  his  calmness  seemed  to 
have  returned.  He  was  leaning  against  the  mantel- 
piece, and  appeared  quite  unmoved  by  Mr.  Sharpe's 
clear  statement  as. to  the  route  Madeline  had  taken. 

"  Of  course,"  continued  Mr.  Sharpe,  "  I  was  not 
quite  certain  I  was  tracking  the  right  person,  although 
her  description  corresponded  with  the  likeness  you 


117 

gave  me.  But  as  you  are  sure  tins  article  of  jewelry 
belonged  to  the  lady  you  want,  the  matter  is  beyond  a 
doubt." 

"  Of  course,"  I  said,  seeing  that  Carriston  had  no 
intention  of  speaking.     "  Where  did  you  find  it  f 

"  It  was  left  behind,  in  a  bedroom  of  one  of  the 
principal  hotels  in  Folkestone.  I  did  go  over  to 
Boulong,  but  after  that  I  thought  I  had  learned  all 
you  would  care  to  know." 

There  was  something  in  the  man's  manner  which 
made  me  dread  what  was  coming.  Again  I  looked  at 
Carriston.  His  lips  were  curved  with  contempt,  but 
he  still  kept  silence. 

"  "Why  not  have  pursued  your  inquiries  past  Bou- 
leng  ?"  i  asked. 

"  For  this  reason,  sir.  I  had  learned  enough.  The 
theory  I  had  concocted  was  the  right  one  after  all.  The 
lady  went  to  Edinburgh  alone,  right  enough :  but  she 
didn't  leave  Edinburgh  alone,  nor  she  didn't  leave 
London  alone,  nor  she  didn't  stay  at  Folkestone — 
where  I  found  the  pin — alone,  nor  she  didn't  go  to 
Boulong  alone.  She  was  accompanied  by  a  young 
gentleman  who  called  himself  Mr.  Smith;  and  what's 
more,  she  called  herself  Mrs.  Smith.  Perhaps  she 
was;  as  they  lived  like  man  and  wife." 

Whether  the  fellow  was  right  or  mistaken,  this  ex- 
planation of  Madeline's  disappearance  seemed  to  give 
me  what  I  can  only  compare  to  a  smack  in  the  face.  I 
stared  at  the  speaker  in  speechless  astonishment.  If 
the  tale  he  told  so  gibly  and  circumstantially  was  true, 
farewell,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  to  belief  in  the  love 
or  purit}^  of  women.  Madeline  Rowan,  that  creature 
of  a  poet's  dream,  on  the  eve  of  her  marriage  with 


118 

Charles  CaiTi'ston  to  %,  wlietlier  wed  or  unwed  mat- 
tered little,  wirli  another  man!  And  jet,  she  was  but 
a  woman.  Cari'iston — or  Carr,  as  she  only  knew  him 
— was  in  her  e)'es  poor.  The  companion  of  her  flight 
might  have  won  her  with  gold.  Such  things  have 
been.     Still — 

My  rapid  and  wrongfnl  meditations  were  cut  short 
in  an  nnexpected  way.  Suddenly  I  saw  Mr.  Sharpe 
dragged  bodilj'  ont  of  his  chair  and  thrown  on  the 
floor,  while  Cai-riston,  standing  over  him,  thrashed  the 
man  vigoronsly  with  liis  own  ash  stick — a  convenient 
weapon,  so  convenient  that  I  felt  Mr.  Sharpe  could  not 
have  selected  a  stick  more  appropriate  for  his  own 
cliastisement.  So  Carriston  seemed  to  think,  for  he 
laid  on  cheerfully  some  eight  or  ten  good  cutting 
strokes. 

Nevertheless,  being  a  respectable  doctor  and  a  man 
of  peace,  I  was  compelled  to  interfere.  I  held  Carris- 
ton's  arm  while  Mr.  Sharpe  struggled  to  his  feet,  and 
after  collecting  his  hat  and  his  pocket-book,  stood 
glaring  vengeful ly  at  his  assailant,  and  rubbing  the 
while  sucli  of  the  weals  on  his  back  as  he  could  reach. 
Annoyed  as  I  felt  at  the  unprofessional  fracas^  I 
could  scarcely  help  laughing  at  the  man's  appearance. 
I  doubt  the  possibility  of  any  one  looking  heroic  aftw 
Buch  a  thrashing. 

*'  I'll  have  the  law  for  this,"  he  growled.  "  I  ain't 
paid  to  be  beaten  by  a,  madman." 

"  You're  paid  to  do  my  work,  not  another's,"  said 
Carriston.  "  Go  to  the  man  who  has  over-bribed  you 
and  sent  you  to  tell  me  your  lies.  Go  to  him,  tell  him 
that  once  more  he  has  failed.     Out  of  my  sight." 

As  Carriston  showed  signs  of  reeommenoing  hostile 


119 

operations,  the  man  flew  as  far  as  the  door-way.  There, 
being  in  comparative  safety,  he  turned  with  a  malig- 
nant look. 

"  You'll  smart  for  this,"  he  said  ;  ''  when  they  lock 
you  up  as  a  raving  lunatic  I'll  try  and  get  a  post  as 
keeper." 

I  was  glad  to  see  that  Carriston  paid  no  attention  to 
this  parting  shaft.  He  turned  his  back  scowifully,  and 
the  fellow  left  the  room  and  the  house. 

"  Now  are  you  convinced  ?"  asked  Carriston,  turning 
to  me. 

"Convinced  of  what?  That  his  tale  is  untrue,  or 
that  he  has  been  misled,  I  am  quite  certain." 

"  Tush  !  That  is  not  worth  consideration.  Don't 
you  see  that  Ralph  has  done  all  this?  I  set  that  man 
to  watch  him  ;  he  found  out  the  ^pionage  ;  suborned 
my  agent,  or  your  agent,  I  should  say ;  sent  liim  here 
with  a  trumped-up  tale.  Oh,  yes  ;  I  was  to  believe 
that  Madeline  had  deserted  me — that  was  to  drive  me 
out  of  my  senses.     My  cousin  is  a  fool  after  all !" 

"  Without  further  proof  I  cannot  believe  that  your 
suspicions  are  correct,"  I  said  ;  but  I  must  own  I  spoke 
with  some  hesitation. 

"  Proof !  A  clever  man  like  you  ought  to  see  ample 
proof  in  the  fact  of  that  wretch  having  twice  called  me 
a  madman.  1  have  seen  him  but  once  before — yon 
know  if  I  then  gave  him  any  grounds  for  making  such 
an  assertion.  Tell  me,  from  whom  could  he  have 
learned  the  word  except  from  Ralph  Carriston  1" 

I  was  bound,  if  only  to  save  my  own  reputation  for 
sagacity,  to  confess  that  the  point  noted  by  Carriston 
had  raised  certain  doubts  in  my  mind.  But  if  Ralph 
Carriston   really  wa8  trying  by  somtr   finely- wrought 


120  €!ARriston's  gift. 

scheme  to  bring  about  what  he  desired,  there  was  all 
the  more  reason  for  great  caution  to  be  exercised. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  beat  him,"  I  said.  ''  He  will  now 
«wear  right  and  left  that  you  are  not  in  your  senses.'' 

"  Of  course  he  will.     What  do  I  care  ?" 

"  Only  remember  this.  It  is  easier  to  get  put  into 
an  asylum  than  to  get  out  of  it." 

"  It  is  not  so  very  easy  for  a  sane  man  like  myself 
to  be  put  tn,  especially  when  he  is  on  his  guard.  I 
have  looked  up  the  law.  There  must  be  a  certificate 
signed  by  two  doctors,  surgeons — or,  I  believe,  apoth- 
ecaries will  do — who  have  seen  the  supposed  lunatic 
alone  and  together.  I'll  take  very  good  care  I  speak 
to  no  doctor  save  yourself,  and  keep  out  of  the  way  of 
surgeons  and  apothecaries." 

It  quite  cheered  me  to  hear  him  speaking  so  sensi- 
bly and  collectedly  about  himself,  but  I  again  im- 
pressed upon  him  the  need  of  great  caution.  Although 
I  could  not  believe  that  his  cousin  had  taken  Madeline 
away,  I  was  inclined  to  think,  after  the  affair  with  the 
spy,  that,  as  Carrisson  averred,  he  aimed  at  getting  him, 
sane  or  insane,  into  a  mad-house. 

But  after  all  these  days  we  were  not  a  step  nearer  to 
the  discovery  of  Madeline's  whereabouts.  Carriston 
made  no  sign  of  doing  anything  to  facilitate  that  dis- 
covery. Again  I  urged  him  to  intrust  the  whole  aifair 
fo  the  police.  Again  he  refused  to  do  so,  adding  that 
I'.e  was  not  quite  ready.     Ready  for  what,  I  wondered  ! 

X. 

I  MUftT  confess,  in  spite  of  my  affection  for  Carris- 
ton, I  felt  inclined  to  rebel  against  the  course  which 
matters  were  taking.     I  was  a  prosaic   matter-of-?uct 


caeriston's  gift.  191 

medical  man  ;  doing  mj  work  to  the  best  of  mj  ability 
and  anxious  when  that  work  was  done  that  my  hours 
of  leisure  sliould  be  as  free  from  worry  and  care  as 
possible.  With  Carriston's  advent  several  disturbing 
elements  entered  into  my  quiet  life. 

Let  Ralph  Carriston  be  guilty  or  innocent  of  the 
extraordinary  crime  which  his  cousin  laid  at  his  door, 
I  felt  that  he  was  anxious  to  obtain  possession  of  the 
supposed  lunatic's  person.  It  would  suit  his  purposes 
for  his  cousin  to  be  proved  mad.  I  did  not  believe 
that  even  if  the  capture  was  legally  effected  Carriston's 
liberation  would  be  a  matter  of  great  difficulty  so  long 
as  he  remained  in  his  present  state  of  mind ;  so  long  as 
I,  a  doctor  of  some  standing,  could  go  into  the  witness- 
box  and  swear  to  his  sanity.  But  my  old  dread  was 
always  with  me — the  dread  that  any  further  shock 
would  overturn  the  balance  of  his  sensitive  mind. 

So  it  was  that  every  hour  that  Carriston  was  out  of 
my  sight  was  fraught  with  anxiety.  If  Ralph  Carris- 
ton was  really  as  unscrupulous  as  my  friend  supposed ; 
if  he  had  really,  as  seemed  almost  probable,  suborned 
our  agent ;  he  might  by  some  crafty  trick  obtain  the 
needful  certificate,  and  some  day  I  should  come  home 
and  tind  Carriston  had  been  removed.  In  such  a  case 
I  foresaw  great  trouble  and  distress. 

Besides,  after  all  that  had  occurred,  it  was  as  much 
as  I  could  do  to  believe  that  Carriston  was  not  mad. 
Any  doctor  who  knew  what  I  knew  would  have  giv^en 
the  verdict  ao^ainst  him. 

After  dismissing  his  visions  and  hallucinations  with 
the  contempt  which  they  deserved,  the  fact  of  a  man 
who  was  madly,  passionately  in  love  with  a  woman, 
und  who  beJieved  that  she  had  been  entrapped  and 


122  carriston's  gift. 

was  still  kept  in  restraint,  sitting  down  quietly,  and 
letting  day  aft-er  day  pass  without  making  an  effort 
toward  finding  her,  was  in  itseii  p?'i7na  facie  evidence 
of  insanity.  A  sane  man  would  at  once  have  set  all 
the  engines  of  detection  at  work. 

I  felt  that  if  once  Ralph  Carriston  obtained  posses- 
sion of  him  he  could  make  out  a  strong  case  in  his  own 
favor.  First  of  all,  the  proposed  marriage  out  of  the 
defendant's  own  sphere  of  life ;  the  passing  under  a 
false  name  ;  the  ridiculous,  or  apparently  ridiculous, 
accusation  made  against  his  kinsman  ;  the  murderous 
threats ;  the  chastisement  of  his  own  paid  agent  who 
brought  him  a  report  which  might  not  seem  at  all  un- 
true to  any  one  who  knew  not  Madeline  Rowan. 
Leaving  out  the  question  what  might  be  wrung  from 
me  in  cross-examination,  Ralph  Carriston  had  a  strong 
case,  and  I  knew  that,  once  in  his  power,  my  friend 
might  possibly  be  doomed  to  pass  years,  if  not  his 
whole  life,  under  restraint.  So  I  was  anxious — very 
anxious. 

And  I  felt  an  anxiety,  scarcely  second  to  that  which 
prevailed  on  Cairiston's  account,  as  to  the  fate  of 
Madeline.  Granting  for  sake  of  argument  that  Car- 
riston's absurd  conviction  that  no  bodily  harm  had  as 
yet  been  done  her,  was  true,  I  felt  sure  that  she  with 
her  scarcely  less  sensitive  nature  must  feel  the  separa- 
tion from  her  lover  as  much  as  he  himself  felt  the  sep- 
aration from  her.  Once  or  twice  I  tried  to  comfort 
myself  with  cynicism — tried  to  persuade  myself  that  a 
young  woman  could  not  in  our  days  be  spirited  away 
— that  she  had  gone  by  her  own  free-will — that  there 
-^^as  a  man  who  had  at  the  eleventh  hour  alienated  her 
Affections  from  Carriston.     But  I  could  not  bring  mj- 


caeriston's  gift.  123 

self  to  believe  this.  So  I  was  placed  between  tlie  horns 
of  a  dilemma. 

If  Madeline  had  not  fled  of  her  own  free-will,  some 
one  must  have  taken  her  awaj',  and  if  so  our  agent's 
report  was  a  coined  one,  and,  if  a  coined  one,  issued  at 
Ralph's  instance ;  therefore  Ralph  must  be  the  prime 
actor  in  the  mystery. 

But  in  sober  moments  such  a  deduction  seemed  an 
utter  absurdity. 

Although  I  have  said  that  Carriston  was  doing 
nothing  toward  clearing  np  the  mystery,  I  wronged 
him  in  so  saying.  After  his  own  erratic  way  lie  waa 
at  work.  At  such  work  too !  I  really  lost  all  patience 
with  him. 

He  shut  himself  up  in  his  room,  out  of  which  he 
scarcely  stirred  for  three  days.  By  that  time  he  had 
completed  a  large  and  beautiful  drawing  of  his  imagi- 
nary man.  This  he  took  to  a  well-known  photograph- 
er's, and  ordered  several  hundred  small  photographs 
of  it,  to  be  prepared  as  soon  as  possible.  The  minute 
description  which  he  had  given  me  of  his  fanciful  ere- 
ation  was  printed  at  the  foot  of  each  copy.  As  soon 
as  the  first  batch  of  these  precious  photographs  was 
was  sent  home,  to  my  great  joy  he  did  what  he  should 
have  done  days  ago  ;  yielded  to  my  wishes,  and  put 
the  matter  into  the  hands  of  the  police. 

I  was  glad  to  find  that  in  giving  details  of  what  had 
happened  he  said  nothing  about  the  advisability  of 
keeping  a  watch  on  Ralph  Carri^ton's  proceedings. 
He  did,  indeed,  offer  an  al)6iirdly  large  reward  for  the 
discovery  of  the  missing  girl;  and.  moreover,  gave  the 
officer  in  charge  of  the  case  a  packet  of  piiotographs 
of  his  phantom  man,  telling  him   in  the  gr-\vest  man. 


124 

ner  that  he  knew  the  original  of  that  likeness  had 
gometliing  to  do  with  the  disappearance  of  Miss 
Rowan.  The  officer,  who  tliought  the  portrait  waa 
tliat  of  a  natural  being,  took  his  instructions  in  good 
faith,  although  he  seemed  greatly  surprised  when  he 
heard  that  Carriston  knew  neither  the  name  nor  the 
occupation,  in  fact,  knew  nothing  concerning  the  man 
who  was  to  be  sought  for.  However,  as  Carriston  as- 
sured him  that  finding  this  man  would  insure  the  re- 
ward as  mncl^.  as  if  he  found  Madeline,  the  officer 
readily  promised  to  combine  the  two  tasks,  little  know- 
ing what  waste  of  time  any  attempt  to  perform  the 
latter  must  be. 

Two  days  after  this  Carriston  came  to  me.  ''I  shall 
leave  you  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  I  asked.  "  Why  do  you 
leave  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  travel  about.  I  have  no  intention 
of  letting  Ralph  get  hold  of  me.  So  I  mean  to  go 
from  place  to  place  until  I  find  Madeline." 

"  Be  careful,"  I  urged. 

"I  shall  be  careful  enough.  I'll  take  care  that  no 
doctors,  surgeons,  or  even  apothecaries  get  on  my 
track,  I  shall  go  just  as  the  fit  seizes  me.  If  I  can't 
say  one  day  where  I  shall  be  the  next,  it  will  be  im- 
possible for  that  villain  to  know." 

This  was  not  a  bad  argument.  In  fact,  if  he  carried 
out  his  resolve  of  passing  quickly  from  place  to  place 
I  did  not  see  how  he  could  plan  anything  more  likely 
to  defeat  the  intentions  with  which  we  credited  his 
cousin.  As  to  his  finding  Madeline  by  so  doing,  that 
was  another  matter. 

His  jdea  seemed  to  be  that  chance  would  sooner  or 


CAERISTON'S   GIFT.  125 

Jatef  bring  him  in  contact  with  the  man  of  his  dream. 
However,  now  that  the  search  had  been  intrnsted  to 
the  proper  persons  his  own  action  in  the  matter  was 
not  worth  troubling  about.  I  gave  him  many  camions. 
He  was  to  be  quiet  and  guarded  in  words  and  manner. 
He  was  not  to  converse  with  strangers.  If  he  found 
himself  dogged  or  watched  by  any  one  he  was  to  com- 
municate at  once  with  me.  But,  above  all,  I  begged 
him  not  to  yield  again  to  his  mental  infirmity.  The 
folly  of  a  man  wlio  could  avoid  it,  throwing  himself 
into  such  a  state  ought  to  be  apparent  to  him. 

"  Not  of tener  than  I  can  help,"  was  all  the  promise 
I  could  get  from  him.  "  But  see  her  I  must  some- 
times, or  I  shall  die." 

I  had  now  given  up  as  hopeless  the  combat  with  his 
peculiar  idiosyncrasy.  So,  with  many  expressions  of 
gratitude  on  his  part,  we  bade  each  other  farewell. 

During  his  absence  he  wrote  to  me  nearly  every  day, 
so  that  I  might  know  his  whereabouts  in  case  I  had 
any  news  to  communicate.  But  I  had  none.  The 
police  failed  to  find  the  slightest  clew.  I  had  been 
called  upon  by  them  once  or  twice  in  order  that  they 
might  have  every  grain  of  information  I  could  give. 
I  took  the  liberty  of  advising  them  not  to  waste  their 
time  in  looking  for  the  man,  as  his  very  existence  was 
problematical.  It  was  but  a  fancy  of  my  friend's,  and 
not  worth  thinking  seriously  about.  I  am  not  sure 
but  what  after  hearing  this  they  did  not  think  the  whole 
affair  was  an  imagined  one,  and  so  relaxed  their  efforts. 

Once  or  twice,  Carriston,  happening  to  be  in  the 
neighborhood  of  London,  came  to  see  me,  and  slept 
the  night  at  my  house.  He  also  had  no  news  to  re- 
port.    Still,  he  seemed  Iiopefui  as  ever. 


l!36  careiston's  gift. 

The  weeks  ^ent  by  until  Christmas  was  over  and 
the  Kew  Year  begun ;  but  no  sign,  word,  or  trace  of 
Madeline  Rowan.  "  I  have  seen  her,"  wrote  Carris- 
ton,  "several  times.  She  is  in  the  same  place — un- 
happy, but  not  ill-treated." 

Evidently  his  hallucinations  were  still  in  full  force. 

At  first  I  intended  that  the  whole  of  this  tale  should 
be  told  by  myself;  but  upon  getting  so  far  it  struck 
me  that  the  evidence  of  another  actor  who  played  an 
important  part  in  the  drama  would  give  certain  occur- 
rences to  the  reader  at  first  instead  of  at  second  hand, 
fso  I  wrote  to  my  friend  Dick  Fenton,  of  Frenchay, 
Gloucestershire,  and  begged  him,  if  he  found  himself 
capable  of  so  doing,  to  put  in  simple  narrative  form 
his  impressions  of  certain  events  which  happened  in 
January,  1866  :  events  in  which  we  two  were  con- 
cerned. He  has  been  good  enough  to  comply  with 
my  request.     His  communicntion  follows. 


CAKEISTON'S   QrlFX.  127 


PAET  II. 

TOLD  BY  RICHARD  FENTON,  OF   FRENCHAY,  GLOU- 
CESTERSHIRE,  ESQUIKE. 


As  my  old  friend  Phil  Brand  has  asked  me  to  do 
this,  I  suppose  I  must.  Brand  is  a  right  good  fellow 
and  a  clever  fellow,  but  has  plenty  of  crotchets  of  his 
own.  The  worst  I  know  of  him  is  that  he  insists  upon 
having  his  own  with  people.  With  those  who  differ 
from  him  he  is  as  obstinate  as  a  mule.  Anyhow,  he 
has  always  had  his  own  way  with  me.  This  custom, 
»o  far  as  I  am  concerned,  commenced  years  ago  when 
we  were  boys  at  school  together,  and  I  have  never  been 
able  to  shake  off  the  bad  habi  tof  giving  in  to  him. 
He  has  promised  to  see  that  my  queen's  English  is 
presentable :  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  more  at  home 
across  country  than  across  foolscap,  and  my  lingers 
know  the  feel  of  the  reins  or  the  trigger  better  than 
that  of  the  pen. 

All  the  same  I  hope  he  won't  take  too  many  liber- 
ties with  my  style,  bad  though  it  may  be ;  for  old 
Brand  at  times  is  apt  to  get — well,  a  bit  prosy.  To 
hear  him  on  the  subject  of  hard  work  and  the  sanctity 
thereof  approaches  the  sublime  I 

What  freak  took  me  to  the  little  God-forsaken  vil- 
lage of  Midcombe  in  the  depth  of  winter  is  entirely 
between  myself  and  my  conscience.    The  cause  having 


128 

no  bearing  upon  the  matters  I  am  asked  to  tell  you  about, 
is  no  one's  business  but  mine.  I  will  only  say  that  now 
I  would  not  stay  in  such  a  place  at  such  a  time  of  the 
year  for  the  sake  of  the  jDrettiest  girl  in  the  world,  let 
alone  tlie  bare  chance  of  meeting  her  once  or  twice. 
But  one's  ideas  change.  I  am  now  a  good  bit  older, 
ride  some  two  stones  heavier,  and  have  been  married 
ever  so  many  years.  Perhaps,  after  all,  as  I  look  back 
1  can  find  some  excuse  for  being  such  an  ass  as  to  en- 
dure for  more  than  a  fortnight  all  the  discomforts 
heaped  upon  me  in  that  little  village  inn. 

A  man  who  sojourns  in  such  a  hole  as  Midcombe 
must  give  some  reason  for  doing  so.  My  ostensible 
reason  was  hunting.  I  had  a  horse  with  me,  and  a 
second-rate  subscription  pack  of  slow-going  mongrels 
did  meet  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood,  so  no  one 
could  gainsay  my  explanation.  But  if  hunting  was 
my  object,  I  got  precious  little  of  it.  A  few  days  af- 
ter mv  arrival  a  bitter,  bitino^  frost  set  in — a  frost  as 
black  as  your  hat  and  as  hard  as  nails.  Yet  still  I 
stayed  on. 

From  private  information  received — no  matter  how, 
when  or  wdiere — I  knew  that  some  people  in  the 
neighborhood  had  organized  a  party  to  go  skating  on  a 
certain  day  at  Lilymere,  a  line  sheet  of  water  sonie 
distance  from  Midcombe.  I  guessed  that  some  on© 
whom  I  particularly  desired  to  meet  w^ould  be  there, 
and  as  the  skating  at  Lilymere  was  free  to  any  one 
who  chose  to  take  the  trouble  of  getting  to  such  an 
out-of-the-way  place,  I  hired  a  horse  and  an  apology 
for  a  dog-cart,  and  at  ten  in  the  morning  started  to 
drive  the  twelve  miles  to  the  pond.  I  took  no  one 
with  me.      I  had  been  to  Lilymere  once  before,  in 


carriston's  gift.  129 

bright  summer  weatlier,  so  fancied  I  knew  the  way 
well  enough. 

The  sky  when  I  started  was  clondv;  the  wind  was 
chopping  round  in  a  way  wliich  made  the  effete  rustic 
old  hostler  predict  a  change  of  weather.  He  was 
riglit.  Before  I  had  driven  two  miles  light  snow  began 
to  fall,  and  by  the  time  I  reached  a  little  wretched 
wayside  inn,  about  a  mile  from  the  Mere,  a  film  of 
white  covered  the  whole  country.  I  stabled  my  horse 
as  well  as  I  could,  then  taking  my  skates  with  ma 
walked  down  to  the  pond. 

Now,  whether  I  had  mistaken  the  day,  or  whethe? 
the  threatening  fall  of  snow  had  made  certain  peopk 
change  their  minds,  I  don't  know;  but,  to  my  annoy- 
ance and  vexation,  no  skaters  were  to  be  seen,  and 
moreover,  the  uncut,  white  surface  told  me  that  none 
had  been  on  the  pond  tliat  morning.  Still  hoping  they 
might  come  in  spite  of  the  weather,  I  put  on  my 
skates  and  went  outside-edging  and  grape-vining  al) 
over  the  place.  But  as  there  was  no  person  in  particu- 
lar— in  fact,  no  one  at  all — to  note  my  powers,  I  soon 
got  tired.  It  was,  indeed,  dreary,  dreary  work.  But 
I  waited  and  hoped  until  the  snow  came  down  so  fast 
and  furiously  that  I  felt  sure  that  waiting  was  in  vain, 
and  that  I  had  driven  to  Lilymere  for  nothing. 

Back  I  went  to  the  little  iim,  utterly  disgusted  with 
thino^s  in  sjeneral,  and  feelino^  that  to  break  some  one's 
head  would  be  a  relief  to  me  in  my  present  state  ol 
mind.  Of  course  a  sensible  man  would  at  once  have 
got  his  horse  between  the  shafts  and  driven  home. 
But  whatever  I  may  be  now.  in  those  days  I  was  not  a 
sensible  man — Brand  will,  I  know,  cordially  indorse 
this  remark — the  accommodation  of  the  inn  was  not 
9 


130 

such  as  to  induce  one  to  linger  within  its  precincta  ^ 
but  the  lire  was  a  rigljt  good  one,  and  a  drink,  which  I 
skilfully  manufactnred  out  of  some  hot  beer,  not  to  be 
despised,  and  proved  warming  to  the  body  and  soothing 
to  the  ruffled  temper.  So  I  lingered  over  the  big  lire  un- 
til I  began  to  feel  hungry,  and  upon  the  landlady  assuring 
me  that  she  could  cook  a  rasher,  decided  it  would  be 
wiser  to  stay  where  I  was  until  the  violence  of  the 
snowstorm  was  over;  for  coming  down  it  was  now, 
and  no  mistake. 

And  it  kept  on  coming  down.  About  half-past 
three,  when  I  sorrowfully  decided  I  was  bound  to 
make  a  move,  it  was  snowing  faster  than  ever.  I  liar-, 
nessed  my  horse,  and  laughing  at  the  old  woman's  dis- 
mal prophec}^  that  I  should  never  get  to  Midcombe  in 
such  weather,  gathered  up  the  reins,  and  away  I  went 
along  the  white  road. 

I  thought  I  knew  the  way  well  enough.  In  fact  I 
had  always  prided  myself  upon  remembering  any  road 
once  driven  over  by  me;  but  does  any  one  who  has 
not  tried  it  really  know  how  a  heavj^  fall  of  snow 
changes  the  aspect  of  the  country,  and  makes  land* 
marks  snares  and  delusions?  I  learned  all  about  it 
then,  once  and  for  all.  I  found,  also,  that  the  snow  lay 
much  deeper  than  I  thought  could  possibly  be  in  so 
short  a  time,  and  it  still  fell  in  a  manner  almost  blind- 
ing. Yet  I  went  on  bravely  and  merrily  for  some 
miles.     Then  came  a  bit  of  uncertainty — 

Which  of  those  two  roads  was  the  right  one  ?  This 
one,  of  course — no,  the  other.  There  was  no  house 
near ;  no  one  was  likely  to  be  passing  in  such  weather, 
so  I  was  left  to  exercise  my  free,  unbiased  choice ;  a 
privilege    I    would    willingly    have  dispensed   with. 


131 

However,  I  made  the  best  selection  I  could,  and  foL 
lowed  it  for  some  two  miles.  Tlien  I  began  to  grow 
doubtful,  and  soon  persuading  myself  that  I  was  o^ 
the  wrong  track,  retraced  my  steps.  I  was  by  this 
time  something  like  a  huge  white  plaster  of  Paris  fig- 
ure, and  the  snow  which  had  accumulated  on  the  old 
dog-cart  made  it  run  heavier  by  half-a-ton,  more  or 
less.  By  the  time  I  came  to  that  unlucky  junction  of 
roads  at  which  my  misfortune  began  it  was  almost; 
dark ;  the  sky  as  black  as  a  tarpaulin,  yet  sending 
down  the  white  feathery  flakes  thicker  and  faster  than 
ever.  I  felt  inclined  to  curse  my  folly  in  attempting 
such  a  drive,  at  any  rate  I  blamed  myself  for  not  hav- 
ing:  started  two  or  three  hours  earlier.  I'll  warrant 
that  steady-going  old  Brand  never  had  to  accuse  him. 
eelf  of  such  foolishness  as  mine. 

Well,  I  took  the  other  road ;  went  on  some  way ; 
came  to  a  turning  which, I  seemed  to  remember;  and, 
not  without  misgivings,  followed  it.  My  misgivings 
increased  when,  after  a  little  while,  I  found  the  road 
grew  full  of  ruts,  which  the  snow  and  the  daikness 
quite  concealed  from  me  until  the  wheels  got  into 
them.  Evidently  I  was  wrong  again.  I  was  just 
thinking  of  making  the  best  of  my  way  out  of  this 
fough  and  unfrequented  road,  when — there,  I  don't 
know  how  it  happened,  such  things  seldom  occur  to 
me — a  stumble,  a  fall  on  the  part  of  my  tired  horse 
sent  me  flying  over  the  dashboard,  with  the  only  con- 
soling thought  that  the  reins  were  still  in  my  hand. 

Luckily  the  snow  had  made  the  falling  pretty  soft. 
I  soon  picked  myself  up  and  set  about  estimating  dam- 
ages. With  some  difficulty  I  got  the  horse  out  of  the 
harness,  and  then  fdt  free  to  inspect  the  dog-cart. 


132 

Alas!  after  the  manner  of  the  two-wheel  kind  when- 
ever a  horse  thinks  fit  to  fall,  one  shaft  had  snapped 
off  like  a  carrot ;  so  here  was  I,  five  miles  apparently 
from  anywhere,  in  the  thick  of  a  blinding  snow-storm, 
left  standing  helpless  beside  a  jaded  horse  and  a  broken 
cart — I  should  like  to  know  what  Brand  would  have 
done  under  the  circumstances. 

As  for  me,  I  reflected  for  some  minutes— reflection 
in  a  snow-storm  is  weaiy  work.  I  reasoned,  I  believe 
logically,  and  at  last  came  to  this  decision :  I  would 
follow  the  road.  If,  as  I  suspected,  it  was  but  a  cart- 
track,  it  would  probably  soon  lead  to  a  habitation  of 
some  kind.  Anyway  I  had  better  try  a  bit  further. 
I  took  hold  of  the  wearied  horse,  and  wuth  snow  under 
my  feet,  snow-flakes  whirling  round  me,  and  a  wind 
blowing  right  into  my  teeth,  struggled  on. 

It  was  a  journey  !  I  think  I  must  have  been  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  going  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 
I  was  just  beginning  to  despair,  when  I  saw  a  welcome 
gleam  of  light.  I  steered  toward  it,  fondly  hoping  that 
my  troubles  were  at  an  end.  I  found  the  light  stole 
through  the  ill-fitting  window-shutters  of  what  seemed, 
so  far  as  I  could  make  out  in  the  darkness,  to  be  a 
email  farm-house.  Tying  to  a  gate  the  knotted  reins 
by  which  I  had  been  leading  the  horse,  I  staggered  up 
to  the  door  and  knocked  loudly.  Upon  my  honor, 
until  I  leaned  against  that  door-post  I  had  no  idea  how 
tired  I  was — until  that  moment  I  never  suspected  that 
the  finding  of  speedy  shelter  meant  absolutely  saving 
my  life.  Covered  from  head  to  foot  with  snow,  my 
hat  crushed  in,  I  must  have  been  a  pitiable  object. 

No  answer  came  to  my  first  summons.  It  was  onlj 
after  a  second  and  more  imperative  application  of  my 


carriston's  gift.  133 

heel  that  the  dooi  deigned  to  give  way  a  few  inches. 
Through  the  aperture  a  woman's  voice  asked  who  was 
there  ? 

"  Let  me  in,"  T  said.  "  I  have  missed  my  way  to 
Midcombe.  My  horse  has  fallen.  You  must  give  me 
6helter  for  the  night.     Open  the  door  and  let  me  in." 

"  Shelter!  You  can't  get  shelter  here,  mister,"  said 
a  man's  gruS  voice.  "  This  ain't  an  inn,  so  you'd  best 
be  off  and  go  elsewhere." 

"  But  I  must  come  in,"  I  said,  astonished  at  such  in- 
hospitality  ;  "I  can't  go  a  step  further.  Open  the 
door  at  once! " 

"  You  be  hanged,"  said  the  man.  "  'Tis  my  house, 
not  yours." 

"  But,  you  fool,  I  mean  to  pay  you  well  for  your 
trouble.  Don't  you  know  it  means  death  wandering 
about  on  such  a  nii^ht  as  this !     Let  me  in." 

"You  won't  come  in  here,"  was  the  brutal  and  boor- 
ish reply.     The  door  closed. 

That  I  was  enraged  at  such  incivility  may  be  easily 
imagined;  but  if  I  said  I  was  thoroughly  frightened 
I  believe  no  one  would  be  surprised.  As  getting  into 
that  house  meant  simply  life  or  death  to  me,  into  that 
house  I  determined  to  get,  by  door  or  window,  by  fair 
means  or  by  foul.  So,  as  the  door  closed,  I  hurled 
mvself  against  it  with  all  the  might  I  could  muster. 
Although  I  ride  much  heavier  now  than  I  did  then, 
all  my  weight  at  that  time  was  bone  and  muscle.  The 
violence  of  my  attack  tore  from  the  lintel  the  staple 
which  held  the  cliain  ;  th-e  door  went  back  with  a  bang, 
and  I  fell  forward  into  the  house,  fully  resolved  to 
stay  there  whether  welcome  or  unwelcome. 


134  carkiston's  gift. 

n. 

The  door  tlirongli  which  I  had  burst  like  a  batter- 
I'lig  I'ain  opened  stiaiglit  into  a  sort  of  kitchen,  so  al- 
rhongh  I  entered  in  a  most  undignilied  wny,  in  fact  on 
ni}'  liands  :uid  knees,  I  was  well-established  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  room  before  the  Jnan  and  woman  emerged 
from  behind  the  door,  where  mj  successful  assault  had 
thrown  them.  I  stood  up  and  faced  them.  They 
wei-e  a  C()U))le  of  ordinarv,  respectably-attired  co^mtrj 
people.  The  man,  a  sturdy,  strong-built,  bull-necked 
rascal,  stood  scowuug  at  me,  and,  I  concluded,  making 
up  his  mind  as  to  wliat  course  to  pursue. 

"My  good  people,"  I  said,  "you  are  behaving  in 
the  most  unheard-of  manner.  Can't  you  understand 
that  I  mean  to  pay  you  well  for  any  trouble  I  give 
you?  But  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  here  I  stay  to- 
night.    To  turn  me  out  would  be  sheer  murder." 

So  caying  I  pulled  off  my  overcoat,  and  began  shak- 
mg  the  snow  out  of  my  whiskers. 

I  dare  say  my  determined  attitude,  my  respectable, 
as  well  as  my  muscular  appearance,  impressed  my  un- 
willing hosts.  Anyway,  they  gave  in  without  more 
ado.  Whilst  the  woman  shut  the  door,  through  which 
the  snow-flakes  were  whirling,  the  man  said  sullenly: 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  spend  the  night  on  a  chair. 
We've  no  beds  here  for  strangers.  'Specially  those  as 
ain't  wanted." 

"  Yery  well,  my  fi-iend.  Having  settled  the  matter 
you  may  as  well  make  yourself  pleasant.  Go  out  and 
put  my  horse  under  cover,  and  give  him  a  feed  of  some 
sort — make  a  mash  if  you  can." 

After  giving  the  woman  a  quick  glance  as  of  warn- 


CARRISTON  S     GIFT.  135 

ing,  my  scowling  host  lit  a  horn  lantern,  and  went  on 
the  errand  I  suggested.  I  gladly  sank  into  a  chair,  and 
warmed  myself  before  a  cheerful  fire.  The  prospect 
of  spending  the  night  amid  such  discomfort  was  not 
alluring,  but  I  had,  at  least,  a  roof  over  my  head. 

As  a  rule,  the  more  churlish  the  nature,  the  more 
avaricious  it  is  found  to  be.  My  promise  of  liberal 
remuneration  was,  after  all,  not  without  its  effect  upon 
the  strange  couple  whose  refusal  to  afford  me  refuge 
had  so  nearly  endangered  my  life.  They  condescended 
to  get  me  some  tea  and  rough  food.  After  I  had  dis- 
posed of  all  that,  the  man  produced  a  bottle  of  gin. 
We  filled  our  glasses,  and  then,  with  the  aid  of  my 
pipe,  I  settled  down  to  make  the  best  of  a  night  spent 
in  a  hard  wooden  chair. 

I  had  come  across  strange  people  in  my  travels,  but 
I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  my  host  was  the 
sullenest,  sulkiest,  most  boorish  specimen  of  human 
nature  I  had  as  yet  met  with.  In  spite  of  his  recent 
ill-treatment  of  me  I  was  quite  ready  to  establish  mat- 
ters on  a  friendly  footing,  and  made  several  attempts 
to  draw  him  into  conversation.  The  brute  would  only 
answer  in  monosyllables,  or  often  not  answer  at  all. 
So  I  gave  up  talking  as  a  bad  job,  and  sat  in  silence, 
smoking  and  looking  into  the  fire,  thinking  a  good  deal, 
it  may  be,  of  some  one  I  should  have  met  that  morn- 
ing at  Lilymere  had  the  wretched  snow  but  kept  off. 

The  long  clock — that  cumbrous  eight-day  machine 
which  inevitably  occupies  one  corner  of  every  cottager's 
kitchen — struck  nine.  The  woman  rose  and  left  us. 
I  concluded  she  was  going  to  bed.  If  so,  I  envied  her. 
Her  husband  showed  no  sign  of  retiring.  He  still  sat 
over  the  fire,  opposite  me.     By  this  time  I  was  dread- 


136  carriston's  gift. 

fully  tired  :  every  bone  in  my  body  ached.  The  hard 
chair  which  an  hour  or  two  ago,  seemed  all  I  could  de- 
sire, now  scarcely  came  up  to  my  ideas  of  the  comfort 
I  was  justly  entitled  to  claim.  M}^  sulky  companion 
had  been  drinking  silently  but  steadily.  Perhaps  the 
liquor  he  had  poured  into  himself  might  have  rendered 
his  frame  of  mind  more  pleasant  and  amenable  to 
reason. 

"  My  good  fellow,"  I  said,  "  your  chairs  are  excel- 
lent ones  of  the  kind,  but  deucedly  uncomfortable.  I 
am  horribly  tired.  If  the  resources  of  your  establish- 
ment can't  furnish  a  bed  for  me  to  sleep  in,  couldn't 
you  find  a  mattress  or  something  to  lay  down  before 
the  fire?" 

"  You've  got  all  you'll  get  to-night,"  he  answered, 
knocking  the  ashes  out  his  pipe. 

"  Oil,  but  I  say  !" 

"  So  do  I  say.  I  say  this  :  If  you  don't  like  it  you 
can  leave  it.     We  didn't  ask  you  to  come." 

"You  infernal  beast,"  I  muttered — and  meant  it 
too — I  declare  had  I  not  been  so  utterly  worn  out,  I 
would  have  had  that  bullet-headed  rnifianup  for  a  few 
rounds  on  his  own  kitchen  floor,  and  tried  to  knock 
him  into  a  more  amiable  frame  of  mind. 

"l^ever  mind,"  I  said;  "but,  remeniber,  civility 
costs  nothing,  and  often  gets  rewarded.  However,  if 
you  wish  to  retire  to  your  own  couch  don't  let  your 
native  politeness  stand  in  your  way.  Pray  don^t  hesi- 
tate on  my  account.  Leave  plenty  of  fuel,  and  I  shall 
manacle  until  morninoj." 

"  Where  yon  stay,  I  stay,"  he  ^inswered.  Then  he 
filled  his  pipe,  and  once  more  relapsed  into  stony 
silence. 


oarristcn's  gift.  137 

I  bothered  about  him  no  more.  I  dozed  off  for  a 
few  minutes — woke — dozed  off  again  for  some  liours. 
I  was  in  an  uncomfortable  sort  of  half  sleep,  crammed 
full  of  curious  dreams — dreams  from  which  I  started, 
wondering  where  I  was  and  how  I  got  there.  I  even 
began  to  grow  nervous.  All  sorts  of  horrible  travellers' 
tales  ran  through  my  head.  It  was  in  just  such  places 
as  this  that  unsuspecting  voyagers  were  stated  to  have 
been  murdered  and  robbed,  by  just  such  unmitigated 
ruffians  as  my  host — I  can  tell  you  that  altogether  I 
spent  a  most  pleasant  night. 

To  make  matters  worse  and  more  dismal  the  storm 
still  raged  outside.  The  wind  moaned  through  the 
trees,  but  it  had  as^ain  chano^ed,  and  I  knew  from  the 
sound  on  the  window-panes  that  heavy  rain  had  suc- 
ceeded snow.  As  the  big  drops  of  water  found  their 
way  down  the  large  old-fashioned  chimney,  the  fire 
hissed  and  spluttered  like  a  spiteful  vixen.  Everything 
combined  to  deprive  me  of  what  dog's  sleep  I  could 
by  sheer  persistency  snatch. 

I  think  I  tried  every  position  which  an  ordinary 
man,  not  an  acrobat,  is  capable  of  adopting  with  the 
assistance  of  a  common  wooden  chair.  I  even  lay  down 
on  the  hard  flags.  I  actually  tried  the  table.  I  propped 
up  the  upper  half  of  my  body  against  the  corner  walls 
of  the  room ;  birt  found  no  rest.  At  last  I  gave  up  all 
idea  of  sleeping,  and  fully  aroused  myself.  I  com- 
forted myself  by  saying  that  my  misery  was  only  tem- 
porary— that  the  longest  night  must  come  to  an  end. 

My  companion  had  by  now  succumbed  to  fatigue, 
or  to  the  combined  effects  of  fatigue  and  gin-and-water. 
His  head  was  hanging  sideways,  and  he  slept  in  a  most 
uncomfortable  attitude.     I  chuckled  as  I  looked  at  himj 


138  carriston's  gift. 

feeling  quite  sure  that  if  such  a  clod  was  capable  of 
dreaming  at  all,  his  dreams  n  .ist  be  worse  even  than 
mine.  I  filled  another  pipe,  poked  the  smoldering  logs 
into  a  blaze,  and  sat  almost  nose  and  knees  over  the 
fire,  finding  some  amusement  in  speculating  upon  the 
condition  of  the  churl  before  me,  and  thanking  the 
Lord  I  was  not  like  unto  this  man.  Suddenly  an  idea 
flashed  across  me. 

I  had  seen  this  fellow  before.  But  wlien  or  where 
I  could  not  remember.  His  featnres,  as  I  looked  at 
them  with  keener  interest,  seemed  to  grow  more  and 
more  familiar  to  me.  Where  conld  I  have  met  him? 
Somewhere  or  other,  but  where  ?  I  racked  m j  brain 
to  associate  him  with  some  scene,  some  event.  Al- 
though he  was  but  an  ordinary  countryman,  such  as  one 
sees  scores  of  in  a  day's  ride,  only  differing  from  his 
kind  on  account  of  his  unpleasant  face,  I  felt  sure  we 
were  old  acquaintances.  When  he  awoke  for  a  mo- 
ment and  changed  his  strained  attitude,  my  feeling 
grew  stronger  and  stronger.  Yet  puzzle  and  puzzle 
as  I  would  I  could  not  call  to  mind  a  former  encoun- 
ter ;  so  at  last  I  began  to  think  the  supposed  recognition 
was  pure  fancy  on  my  part. 

Having  smoked  out  several  pipes,  I  thought  that  a 
cigar  would  be  a  slight  break  to  the  monotony  of  the 
night's  proceedings.  So  I  drew  out  my  case  and  looked 
at  its  contents.  Among  the  weeds  was  one  of  a  lighter 
color  than  the  others.  As  I  took  it  out  I  said  to  my- 
self, "  Why,  old  Brand  gave  me  that  one  when  I  was 
last  at  his  house."  Curiously  enough  that  cigar  was 
the  missing  link  in  the  chain  of  my  memory.  As  I 
held  it  in  my  hand  I  knew  at  once  why  my  host's  ugl^ 
face  seemed  familiar  to  me. 


carPwIston's  gift.  139 

About  a  fortnight  before,  being  in  town,  I  had 
spent  the  evening  with  the  doctor.  He  was  not  alone, 
and  I  was  introduced  to  a  tall  pale  yonng  man  named 
Carriston.  He  was  a  pleasant,  polite  young  fellow, 
although  not  much  in  my  line.  At  first  I  judged  him 
to  be  a  would-be  poet  of  the  fashionable  miserable 
school ;  but  finding  that  he  and  Brand  talked  so  much 
about  art  I  eventually  decided  that  he  was  one  of  the 
doctor's  many  artist  friends.  Art  is  a  hobby  he  hacks 
about  on  grandly.  (Mem.  Brand's  own  attempt  at 
pictures  are  simply  atrocious  !) 

Just  before  I  left,  Carriston,  the  doctor's  back  being 
turned,  asked  me  to  step  into  another  room.  There 
he  showed  me  the  portrait  of  a  man.  It  seemed  very 
cleverly  drawn,  and  I  presumed  he  wanted  me  to  criti- 
cise it. 

''  I  am  a  precious  bad  judge,"  I  said. 

"lam  not  asking  you  to  pass  an  opinion,"  said  Car- 
riston. "  I  want  to  beg  a  favor  of  yon.  I  aia  almost 
ashamed  to  beg  it  on  so  short  an  acquaintance." 

He  seemed  modest,  and  not  in  want  of  money,  so  I 
encouraged  him  to  proceed. 

*' I  heard  yon  say  you  were  going  into  the  countrj'," 
he  resumed.  "  I  want  to  ask  you  if  by  any  cliance  yoi\ 
should  meet  the  original  of  that  drawing  to  telegraph 
at  once  to  Dr.  Brand." 

"  Whereabouts  does  he  live?" 

"I  liave  no  idea.  If  chance  throws  him  in  your 
way  please  do  as  I  ask." 

''Certainly  I  will,"  I  said,  seeing  tlie  young  man 
made  the  request  in  solemn  earnest. 

He  thanked  me,  and  rhen  gave  me  a  small  photo- 
graph of  the  picture.     This  photograph  he  begged  me 


140  cabriston's  gift. 

to  keep  in  my  pocket-book,  so  that  I  miglit  refer  to  it 
in  case  I  met  the  man  he  wanted.  I  put  it  there, 
went  my  way,  and,  am  sorry  to  say,  forget  all  about  it. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  strange  cigar  in  m}^  case  bring- 
ing back  Carriston's  unusual  request  to  my  mind,  the 
probabilities  are  that  I  should  not  have  thought  again 
of  the  matter.  ^Now,  by  a  remarkable  coincidence,  I 
was  spending  the  night  with  the  very  man,  who,  so 
far  as  my  memory  served  me,  must  have  sat  for  the 
portrait  shown  me  at  Brand's  house. 

"  I  wonder  what  I  did  with  the  photo,'''  I  said.  I 
turned  out  my  letter-case.  There  it  was,  i-ight  enough ! 
Shading  it  with  one  hand,  I  carefully  compared  it  with 
the  sleeper. 

Not  a  doubt  about  it !  So  far  as  a  photograph  taken 
from  a  picture  can  go,  it  was  the  man  himself.  The 
same  ragged  beard,  the  same  coarse  features,  the  same 
surly  look.  Young  Carriston  was  evidently  a  wonder- 
ful hand  at  knocking  off  a  likeness.  Moreover,  in 
case  I  had  felt  any  doubt  in  the  matter,  a  printed  note 
at  the  bottom  of  the  photograph  said  that  one  joint 
was  missing  from  a  right-hand  finger.  Sure  enough, 
my  friend  lacked  that  small  portion  of  his  misbegotton 
frame. 

This  discovery  threw  me  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight.  I 
laughed  so  loudly  that  I  almost  awoke  the  ruffian.  I 
guessed  I  w\as  going  to  take  a  glorious  revenge  for  all 
the  discomforts  I  had  suffered.  Ko  one,  I  felt  sure, 
could  be  looking  for  such  a  fellow  as  this  to  do  any 
good  to  him.  I  was  quite  happy  in  the  thought,  and 
for  the  remainder  of  the  night  gloated  over  the  idea 
of  putting  a  spoke  in  the  wheel  of  one  who  had  been 
within  an  ace  of  causing  my  death.     I  resolved,  the 


carmstok's  gift.  141 

moment  1  got  back  to  civilization,  to  send  the  desired 
Uitelligence  to  Brand,  and  hope  for  the  best. 

ni. 

The  end  of  that  wretched  night  came  at  last.  When 
[he  welcome  morning  broke  I  found  that  a  great 
change  had  taken  place  out-of-doors.  The  fierce 
snow-storm^  had  been  the  farewell  of  the  frost.  The 
heavy  rain  that  followed  had  filled  the  roads  with 
slushy  and  rapidly-thawing  snow.  I  managed  to  eX' 
tort  some  of  a  breakfast  from  my  host,  then,  having 
recompensed  him  according  to  my  promise,  not  lii^ 
deserts,  started,  as  soon  as  I  could,  on  the  bare  back 
of  my  unfortunate  steed,  for  Midcombe,  which  place, 
after  my  night's  experience,  seemed  gifted  with  merits 
not  its  own. 

I  was  surprised  upon  leaving  the  house  to  find  it 
was  of  larger  dimensions  than,  from  the  little  I  saw  of 
it  during  the  night,  I  had  imagined.  It  was  altogether 
a  better  class  of  residence  than  I  had  supposed.  My 
surly  friend  accompanied  me  until  he  had  placed  me  on 
the  main  road,  where  I  could  make  no  possible  mistake. 
He  was  kind  enough  to  promise  to  assist  any  one  I 
might  send  out  in  getting  the  dog-cart  once  more  un' 
der  way.  Then,  with  a  hearty  wish  on  my  part  that  1 
might  never  again  meet  with  his  like,  we  parted. 

I  found  my  way  to  Midcombe  without  much  trouble, 
I  took  off  my  things,  had  a  wash,  and,  like  a  sensible 
man  for  once,  went  to  bed.  But  I  did  not  forget  to 
send  a  boy  straight  off  to  the  nearest  telegraph  station. 
My  message  to  Brand  was  a  brief  one.  It  simply 
•aid :  "  Tell  your  friend  I  have  found  his  man." 
This  duty  done,  I  dismissed  all  speculatioD  as  to  the 


142  carriston's  gift. 

result  from  my  mind,  and  settled  down  to  make  up 
arrears  of  sleep. 

I  was  surprised  at  tlie  reply  received  that  same  even- 
ing from  Brand  :  "  We  shall  be  with  you  as  soon  as 
we  can  get  down  to-morrow.  Meet  us  at  station." 
From  this  it  was  clear  that  my  friend  was  wanted  par- 
ticularly— all  the  better  1  I  turned  to  the  time-table 
and  found  that,  owing  to  changes  and  delays,  they 
could  not  get  to  C ,  the  nearest  station  to  Mid- 
comb,  until  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  I  inquired 
about  the  crippled  dog-cart.  It  had  been  brought  in; 
so  I  left  strict  instructions  that  a  shaft  of  some  sort 
was  to  be  rigged  in  time  for  me  to  drive  over  the  next 
day  and  meet  the  doctor  and  his  friend. 

They  came  as  promised.  It  was  a  comfort  to  see 
friends  of  any  description,  so  I  gave  them  a  hearty 
welcome.  Carriston  took  hold  of  both  my  hands,  and 
shook  them  so  warmly  that  I  began  to  feel  I  had  dis- 
covered a  long-lost  father  of  his  in  my  friend.  I  liad 
almost  forgotten  the  young  fellow's  appearance,  or  he 
looked  a  very  different  man  to-day  from  the  one  I  had 
seen  when  last  we  met.  Then  he  was  a  wan,  pensive, 
romantic,  poetical-looking  sort  of  fellow;  now  he  seemed 
full  of  energy,  vitality,  and  grit.  Poor  old  Brand 
looked  as  serious  as  an  undertaker  engaged  in  burying 
his  own  mother. 

Carriston  began  to  question  me,  but  Brand  stopped 
him.  "You  promised  I  should  make  inquiries  first," 
he  said.     Then  he  turned  to  me. 

"Look  here,  Richard," — wlien  he  calls  me  Eichard 
I  know  he  is  fearfully  in  earnest — "I  believe  you  have 
brought  us  down  on  a  fool's  errand  ;  but  let  us  go  to 
some  place  where  we  can  talk  together  for  a  few  mtu' 
utee." 


CAERISTON'S   GIFT.  14S 

I  lead  tliem  across  the  road  to  the  Railway  Inn.  "We 
entered  a  room,  and,  liaving  for  the  sake  of  appearances 
ordered  a  little  light  refreshment,  told  the  waiter  to 
shut  the  door  from  the  outside.  Brand  settled  down 
with  the  air  of  a  cross-examining  counsel.  I  expected 
to  see  him  pull  out  a  New  Testament  and  put  me  on 
tny  oath. 

"Now,  Richard,"  he  said,  "before  we  go  fur. 
ther  I  want  to  know  your  reasons  for  thinking  tills 
man,  about  whom  you  telegraphed,  is  Carriston's  man, 
as  you  call  him." 

"  Reasons  !  Why  of  course  he  is  the  man.  Carris- 
ton  gave  me  his  photograph.  The  likeness"  Is  indis- 
putable— leaving  the  finger-joint  out  of  the  question." 

Here  Carriston  looked  at  my  cross-exanjlner  trium- 
phantly. The  meaning  of  that  look  I  have  never  to 
this  hour  understood.  But  I  laughed  because  I  knew 
old  Brand  had  for  once  made  a  mistake,  and  w^as  going 
to  be  called  to  account  for  it.  Carriston  was  about  to 
speak,  but  the  doctor  waved  him  aside. 

"Now,  Richard,  think  very  carefully.  You  speak 
of  the  missing  finger-joint.  We  doctors  know  how 
many  people  persuade  theniselves  into  all  sorts  of 
thing.  Tell  me,  did  you  notice  the  likeness  before 
you  saw  the  mutilated  finger,  or  did  the  fact  of  the 
finger's  being  mutilated  bring  the  likeness  to  yout 
mind?" 

"Bless  the  man  !"  I  said  ;  "one  would  think  I  had 
no  eyes.  I  tell  you  there  is  no  doubt  about  this  man 
being  the  original  of  the  photo." 

"Never  mind  ;  answer  my  question." 

"  Well,  then,  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it,  but  I  put 
tJie  photo  in  my  pocket,  and  forgot  all  about  it  until  I 


144  carrtston's  gift. 

had  recognized  the  man,  and  pulled  out  the  likeness 
to  make  sure.  I  didn't  even  know  there  was  a  printed 
description  at  the  foot,  nor  that  any  member  was 
wanting.  Confound  it,  Brand  !  I'm  not  such  a  duffel 
as  you  think." 

Brand  did  not  retaliate.  He  turned  to  his  friend 
and  said  gravely,  "  To  me  the  matter  is  inexplicable. 
Take  your  own  course,  as  I  promised  you  should." 
Then  he  sat  down,  looking  deliciously  crest-fallen,  and 
wearing  the  discontented  expression  always  natural  to 
him  when  worsted  in  argument. 

It  was  now  Carriston's  turn.  He  plied  me  with 
many  questions.  In  fact,  I  gave  him  the  w^iole  his- 
tory  of  my  adventure.  "What  kind  of  house  is  it?" 
he  asked. 

"  Better  than  a  cottage — scarcely  a  farm-house.  A 
place,  I  should  think,  with  a  few  miserable  acres  of 
bad  land  belonging  to  it.  One  of  those  wretched  little 
holdings  which  are  simply  curses  to  the  country." 

He  made  lots  of  other  inquiries,  the  purport  of 
which  I  could  not  then  divine.  He  seemed  greatly 
impressed  when  I  told  him  that  the  man  had  never  for 
a  moment  left  me  alone.  He  shot  a  second  glance  of 
triumph  at  Brand,  who  still  kept  silent,  and  looked  as 
if  all  the  wind  had  been  taken  out  of  his  sails. 

"  How  far  is  the  place  ?"  asked  Carriston.  ''  Could 
you  drive  me  there  after  dark  ?" 

At  this  question  the  doctor  returned  to  life.  ''What 
do  you  mean  to  do  ?"  he  asked  his  friend.  "  Let  us 
have  no  nonsense.  Even  now  I  feel  sure  that  Fenton 
is  mislead  by  some  chance  resemblance — " 

"  Deirce  a  bit,  old  chap,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  whether  or  not,  we  needn't  do  foolish  things. 


CARRISTON'S   GIFT.  145 

W"e  must  go  and  swear  information,  and  get  a  search- 
warrant,  and  the  assistance  of  the  police.  The  truth 
is,  Richard,"  he  continued,  turning  to  me,  "we  have 
reason  to  believe,  or  I  should  saj  Carriston  persists  in 
fancying,  that  a  friend  of  his  has  for  some  time  been 
kept  in  durance  by  the  man  whom  you  say  you  recog- 
nized." 

''  Likely  enough,"  I  said.  "  He  looked  villain  enough 
for  anything  up  to  murder." 

"  Anyway,"  said  Brand,  "  we  must  do  everything 
according  to  law." 

"  Law  !  1  want  no  law,"  answered  Carriston.  "  I 
have  found  her,  as  I  knew  I  should  find  her.  I  shall 
simply  fetch  her,  and  at  once.  You  can  come  with 
me  or  stay  here,  as  you  like,  doctor  ;  but  I  am  afraid  I 
must  trouble  your  friend  to  drive  me  somewhere  near 
the  place  he  speaks  of." 

Foreseeing  an  adventure  and  great  fun — moreover, 
not  unmoved  by  thoughts  of  revenge— I  placed  myself 
entirely  at  Carriston's  disposal.  He  expressed  his 
gratitude,  and  suggested  that  we  should  start  at  once. 
In  a  few  minutes  we  were  ready,  and  mounted  the  dog- 
cart. Brand,  after  grumbling  loudly  at  the  whole 
proceeding,  finished  up  by  following  us,  and  installing 
himself  in  the  back  seat.  Carriston  placed  a  parcel 
he  carried  inside  the  cart,  and  away  we  went. 

It  was  now  nearly  dark,  and  raining  cats  and  dogs. 
I  had  my  lamps  lighted,  so  we  got  along  without  much 
difficulty.  The  roads  were  deep  with  mud  ;  but  by 
this  time  the  snow  had  been  pretty  nearly  washed  away 
from  everywhere.  I  don't  make  a  mistake  in  a  road 
twice,  so  in  due  course  we  reached  the  scene  of  my  up- 
set. Here  I  drew  up. 
10 


146  caeriston's  gift. 

"  The  house  lies  about  five  hundred  yards  up  the 
lane,"  I  told  Cai-riston  ;  "  we  had  better  get  out  here." 

"What  about  tlie  horse?"  asked  Brand. 

"No  chance  of  any  one  passing  this  way  on  such  a 
night  as  this  ;  so  let  us  put  out  the  lamps  and  tie  him 
up  somewhere." 

We  did  so;  then  struggled  on  afoot  until  we  saw 
the  gleam  of  light  which  had  been  so  welcomed  by  me 
two  nights  before. 

It  was  just  about  as  dai-k  as  pitch  ;  but  guided  by 
the  light,  we  went  on  until  we  stood  in  front  of  the 
house,  where  a  turf  bank  and  a  dry  hedge  hid  us  from 
sight,  although  on  such  a  night  we  had  little  fear  of 
our  presence  being  discovered. 

'•  What  do  you  mean  to  do  now  ?"  asked  Brand  in  a 
discontented  whisper.  "  You  can't  break  into  the 
house." 

Carriston  said  nothing  for  a  minute;  then  I  felt 
him  place  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"Are  there  any  horses;  any  cows  about  the  place?" 
he  asked. 

I  told  him  I  thought  that  my  surly  friend  rejoiced 
in  the  possession  of  a  hoi-se  and  a  cow. 

"Very  well.  Then  w^e  must  wait.  He'll  come 
out  to  see  to  them  before  he  goes  to  bed,"  said  Carris- 
ton, as  decidedly  as  a  general  giving  orders  just  before 
a  battle. 

I  could  not  see  how  Brand  expressed  his  feelings 
upon  hearing  this  order  from  our  commander — I 
know  I  shrugged  my  shoulders,  and  if  I  said  nothing, 
I  thought  a  deal.  The  present  situation  was  all  very 
Yrell  for  a  strongly-interested  party  like  Carriston,  but 
he  could  scarcely  expect  others  to  relish  the  prospect 


carriston's  gift.  147 

of  waiting,  it  miglit  be  for  hours,  under  that  comfort- 
less hedge.  We  were  all  wet  to  the  skin,  and  although 
I  was  exti'eniely  anxious  to  see  the  end  of  the  expedi- 
tion, and  lind  poetical  justice  meted  out  to  my  late 
host,  Carriston's  P'ahian  tactics  lacked  the  excitement 
I  longed  for.  Brand,  in  spite  of  his  disapproval  of  the 
whole  course  of  action,  was  better  off  than  I  was.  As 
a  doctor,  he  must  have  felt  sure  that,  provided  he 
could  survive  tlie  exposure,  he  would  secure  two  fresh 
patients.  However,  we  made  no  protest,  but  waited 
for  events  to  develop  themselves. 

IV. 

More  than  half  an  hour  went  by.  I  was  growing 
numbed  and  tired,  and  beginning  to  think  that  we 
were  making  asses  of  ourselves,  when  I  heard  the  rat- 
tle of  a  chain,  and  felt  Carriston  give  my  arm  a  warn- 
i:ig  touch.  'No  doubt  my  late  host  had  made  sure  that 
his  new  door-fastenings  were  equal  to  a  stronger  test 
than  that  to  which  I  had  subjected  the  former  ones; 
60  W8  were  wise  in  not  attempting  to  carry  his  castle 
by  force. 

The  door  opened,  and  closed  again.  I  saw  the  feeble 
glimmer  of  a  lantern  moving  toward  the  out-house  in 
which  my  horse  had  been  stabled.  I  heard  a  slight 
rustling  in  the  hedge,  and,  stretching  out  my  arm, 
found  that  Carriston  had  left  my  side.  In  the  absence 
of  any  command  from  him  I  did  not  follow,  but  re- 
sumed the  old  occupation — waiting. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  light  of  the  lantern  reappeared  ; 
the  bearer  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  house,  while 
I  wondered  what  Carriston  was  doing.  Just  as  the 
^oor  was  opened  for  the  boor's  readmittaiice,  a  dark 


148  carriston's  gift. 

figure  sprung  upon  him !  I  heard  a  fierce  oath  and 
cry  of  surprise  ;  then  the  lantern  flew  out  of  the  man's 
hand,  and  he  and  his  assailant  tumbled  struggling 
through  the  narrow  door- way. 

"Hurrah  !  the  door  is  won,  anyway  !"  I  shouted,  as, 
followed  closely  by  the  doctor,  I  jumped  over  the 
hedge  and  rushed  to  the  scene  of  the  fray. 

Although  Carriston's  well-conceived  attack  was  so 
vigorous  and  unexpected  tliat  the  man  went  down 
under  it ;  although  our  leader  utilized  the  advantage 
he  had  gained  in  a  proper  and  laudable  manner,  by 
bumping  that  thick  bullet-head  as  violently  as  he 
could  against  the  flags  on  wliich  it  lay ;  I  doubt  if, 
after  all,  he  could  have  done  his  work  alone.  The 
countryman  was  a  muscular  brute  and  Carristoti  but  a 
stripling.  However,  our  arrival  speedily  settled  the 
question. 

"  Bind  him  !''  panted  Carriston  ;  "  there  is  a  cord  in 
my  pocket."  He  appeared  to  have  come  quite  pre- 
pared for  contingencies.  Whilst  Carriston  still  em- 
braced his  prostrate  foe,  and  Brand,  to  faciliate  mat- 
ters, knelt  on  his  shoulders,  sat  on  his  head,  or  did 
something  else  useful,  I  drew  out  from  the  first  pocket 
I  tried  a  nice  length  of  half-inch  line,  and  had  the  im- 
mence  satisfaction  of  trussing  up  my  scowling  friend 
in  a  most  workmanlike  manner.  He  must  have  felt 
those  turns  on  his  wrists  for  days  afterward.  Yet 
when  we  were  at  last  at  liberty  to  rise  and  leave  him 
lying  helpless  on  his  kitchen-floor,  I  considered  I  ex- 
ercised great  self-denial  in  not  bestowing  a  few  kicks 
upon  him,  as  he  swore  at  us  in  the  broadest  vernacular 
in  a  way  which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  no  doubt 
a  great  comfort  to  him. 


carriston's  gift.  149 

We  scarcely  noticed  the  man's  wife  while  we  rend 
ered  her  husbtnd  helpless.  As  we  entered  she 
attempted  to  flj  out,  but  Brand,  with  a  promptitude 
which  I  am  glad  to  record,  intercepted  her,  closed  the 
door,  turned  and  pocketed  the  key.  After  that  the 
woman  sat  on  the  floor  and  rocked  herself  to  and  fro. 

For  some  moments,  while  recovering  his  breath, 
Carriston  stood,  and  positively  glared  at  his  prostrate 
foe.     At  last  he  found  words. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  AVhere  is  the  key,  you  hound  ?"  he 
thundered  out,  stooping  over  the  fellow,  and  shaking 
him  with  a  violence  which  did  my  heart  good.  As  he 
received  no  answers  sa^e  the  unrecordable  expressions 
above  mentioned,  we  unbuttoned  the  wretch's  pockets, 
and  searched  those  greasy  receptacles.  Among  the 
usual  litter  we  did  certainly  find  a  key.  Carriston 
snatched  at  it,  and  shouting  "  Madeline  !  Madeline !  I 
come !"  rushed  out  of  the  room  like  a  maniac,  leaving 
Brand  and  me  to  keep  guard  over  our  prisoners. 

I  filled  a  pipe,  lit  it,  and  then  came  back  to  my  fallen 
foe. 

"  I  say,  old  chap  !"  I  said,  stirring  him  gently  with 
the  toe  of  my  boot,  "this  will  be  a  lesson  to  you. 
Remember,  I  told  you  that  civility  costs  nothing.  If 
you  had  given  me  Christian  bed  accommodation  instead 
of  making  me  wear  out  my  poor  bones  on  that  infernal 
chair,  you  could  have  jogged  along  in  your  rascality 
quite  comfortably,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

He  was  very  ungrateful — so  much  so  that  my  desire 
to  kick  him  was  intensified.  I  should  not  like  to  swear 
I  did  not  to  a  slight  degree  yield  to  the  temptation. 

"  Push  a  handkerchief  in  his  mouth,"  cried  Brand, 
suddenly.     "  A  lady  is  coming." 


12^  carriston's  gift. 

With  right  good-will  I  did  as  the  doctor  8Uggest«sd. 

Just  then  Carriston  returned.  I  don't  want  to  raise 
home  tempests,  yet  I  must  say  he  was  accompanied  by 
the  most  beautiful  creature  my  eyes  have  ever  lighted 
upon.  True,  she  was  pale  as  a  lily — looked  thin  and 
delicate,  and  her  face  bore  traces  of  anxiety  and  suffer- 
ing, but  for  all  that  she  was  beautiful — too  beautiful 
for  this  world,  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  her.  She  was 
clinging  in  a  half-frightened,  half-confiding  way  to 
Carriston,  and  he — happy  fellow! — regardless  of  our 
presence,  was  showering  down  kisses  on  her  sweet  pale 
face.  Confound  it !  I  grow  quite  romantic  as  I  recall 
the  sight  of  those  lovers. 

A  most  curious  young  man,  that  Carriston!  He 
came  to  us,  the  lovely  girl  on  his  arm,  without  showing, 
a  trace  of  his  recent  excitement. 

^'  Let  us  go  now,"  he  said,  as  calmly  as  if  he  h?d 
been  taking  a  quiet  evening  drive.  Then  he  turned  *o 
me. 

"  Do  you  think,  Mr.  Fen  ton,  you  could  without  much 
trouble  get  the  dog-cart  up  to  the  house  ?" 

I  said  I  would  try  to  do  so. 

"  But  what  about  these  people  ?"  asked  Brand. 

Carriston  gave  them  a  contemptuous  glance.  "  Leave 
them  alone,"  he  said.  "  They  are  but  the  tools  of 
another — him  I  cannot  touch.     Let  us  go." 

"Yes,  yes.  But  why  not  verify  your  suspicions 
while  you  can  ?" 

Just  like  Brand !  He's  always  wanting  to  verify 
everything. 

In  searching  for  the  key  we  had  found  some  papers 
9ia  our  prisoner.     Brand  examined  them,  and  handed 


151 

to  Oarriston  an  envelope  which  contained  what  looked 
like  bank-notes. 

Carriston  glanced  at  it.  "The  handwriting  is,  of 
course,  disguised,"  he  said,  carelessl  j  ;  "  but  the  post- 
mark shows  whence  it  came.  It  is  as  I  always  told 
you.     You  agree  with  me  now  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must,"  said  Brand,  humbly.  "  But 
we  must  do  something  about  this  man,"  he  continued. 

Hereupon  Carriston  turned  to  our  prisoner.  "  Listen^ 
you  villain,"  he  said.  "  I  will  let  you  go  scot-free  i^ 
you  breathe  no  word  of  this  to  your  employer  for  the 
next  fortnight.  If  he  learns  from  you  what  has  hap- 
pened before  that  time,  I  swear  you  shall  go  to  penal 
servitude.     "Which  do  you  choose  ?" 

I  pulled  out  the  gag,  and  it  is  needless  to  say  which 
the  fellow  chose. 

Then  I  went  off,  and  recovered  the  liorse  and  cart 
I  relighted  the  lamps,  and  with  some  difficulty  got  the 
dog-cart  up  to  the  kouse,  Carriston  having  exactly 
anticipated  the  events  of  the  night.  The  parcel  he 
had  brought  with  him  contained  a  bonnet  and  a  thick, 
t^arm  cloth  cloak.  His  beautiful  friend  was  equipped 
with  these ;  then  leaving  the  woman  of  the  house  to 
untie  her  husband  at  her  leisure  and  pleasure,  away  we 
started ;  the  doctor  sitting  by  me ;  Carriston  and  the 
lady  behind. 

We  just  managed  to  catch  the  last  train  from  C . 

Not  feeling  sure  as  to  what  form  inquiries  might  take 
to-morrow,  I  thought  it  better  to  go  up  to  town  with 
my  friends ;  so,  as  we  passed  through  Midcombe,  I 
stopped,  paid  my  bill,  and  gave  instructions  for  my 
luggage  to  be  forwarded  to  me.  By  six  o'clock  the 
next  morning  we  were  all  in  London. 


152  carriston's  gift. 

DR.    BRAND   IN    CONCLrSION. 

When  I  asked  Fenton  to  relate  his  experiences  I  did 
not  mean  him  to  do  so  at  such  length.  But  there,  as 
he  has  written  it,  and  as  writing  is  not  a  labor  of  love 
with  him,  let  it  go. 

When  Madeline  Eowan  found  the  bed  by  the  side 
of  which  she  had  thrown  herself  in  an  ecstasy  of  grief 
untenanted,  she  knew  in  a  moment  that  she  was  the 
victim  of  a  deep-laid  plot.  Being  ignorant  of  Carris- 
ton's  true  position  in  the  world  she  could  conceive  no 
reason  for  the  elaborate  scheme  which  have  been  devised 
to  lure  her  so  many  miles  from  her  home,  and  make  a 
prisoner  of  her. 

A  prisoner  she  was.  Not  only  was  the  door  locked 
upon  her,  but  a  slip  of  paper  lay  on  the  bed.  It  bore 
these  words,  "  No  harm  is  meant  you,  and  in  due  time 
you  will  be  released.  Ask  no  questions,  make  no  fool- 
ish attempts  at  escape,  and  you  will  be  well-treated." 

Upon  reading  this  the  girl's  first  thought  was  one  of 
tliankfulness.  She  saw  at  once  that  the  reported  aoci- 
■dent  to  her  lover  was  but  an  invention.  The  proba- 
bilities were  that  Carriston  was  alive,  and  in  his  usual 
health.  Now  that  she  felt  certain  of  this,  she  could 
bear  anything. 

From  the  day  on  which  she  entered  that  room,  to 
tliat  on  which  we  rescued  her,  Madeline  was  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  as  close  a  prisoner  in  that  lonely 
house  on  the  hill-side  as  she  might  have  been  in  the 
deepest  dungeon  in  the  world.  Threats,  entreaties, 
promises  of  bribes  availed  nothing.  She  was  not  un- 
kindly treated — that  is,  suffered  no  absolute  ill-usage. 
Books,  materials  for  needle-work,  and  other  little  aids 


158 

to  while  away  time  were  supplied.  But  the  only  lin- 
ing creatures  she  saw  were  the  women  of  the  house 
who  attended  to  her  wants,  and,  on  one  or  two  occa- 
sions, the  man  whom  Carriston  asserted  he  had  seen  in 
his  trance.  She  had  suffered  from  the  close  confine- 
ment, but  had  always  felt  certain  that  soo4ier  or  later 
her  lover  would  find  her,  and  effect  her  deliverance. 
Kow  that  she  knew  he  was  alive  she  could  not  be 
unhappy. 

I  did  not  choose  to  ask  her  why  she  had  felt  so 
certain  on  the  above  points.  I  wished  to  add  no  more 
puzzles  to  the  one  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  exercised, 
even  annoyed  me,  more  than  I  care  to  say.  But  I  did 
ask  her  if,  during  her  incarceration,  her  jailer  had  ever 
laid  his  hand  upon  her. 

She  told  me  that  some  short  time  after  her  arrival  a 
stranger  had  gained  admittance  to  the  house.  Whilst 
he  was  there  the  man  had  entered  her  room,  held  hei! 
arm,  and  threatened  her  with  violence  if  she  made 
any  outcry.  After  hearing  this,  I  did  not  pursue  the 
subject. 

Carriston  and  Madeline  were  married  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment,  and  left  England  immediately  after 
the  ceremony.  A  week  after  their  departure,  by  Cap 
riston's  request,  I  forwarded  the  envelope  found  upon 
our  prisoner  to  Mr.  Ralph  Carriston.  With  it  I  sent  a 
few  lines  stating  where  and  under  what  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances we  had  become  possessed  of  it.  I  never  re^ 
reived  any  reply  to  my  communication  ;  so,  wild  and 
improbable  as  it  seems,  I  am  bound  to  believe  that 
Charles  Carriston^s  surmise  was  right — that  Madeline 
was  decoyed  away  and  concealed,  not  from  any  ill-will 
toward  herself,  but  with  a  view  to  the  possible  baneful 


154  carriston's  gift. 

effect  which  her  mysterious  disappearance  raight  work 
upon  her  lover's  strange  and  excitable  organization ; 
and  I  iirnily  believe  that  had  he  not  in  some  inex- 
plicable way  been  firmly  convinced  that  she  was  alive 
and  faithful  to  him,  the  plot  would  have  been  a 
thorough  success,  and  Charles  Carriston  would  have 
spent  the  rest  of  his  days  in  an  asylum. 

Both  Sir  Charles — he  succeeded  to  his  title  shortly 
after  his  marriage — and  Lady  Carriston  are  now  dead, 
or  I  should  not  have  ventured  to  relate  these  things 
concerning  them.  They  had  twelve  years  of  happiness. 
If  measured  by  time  the  period  was  but  a  short  one ; 
but  I  feel  sure  that  in  it  they  enjoyed  more  true  hap- 
piness than  many  others  find  in  the  course  of  a  pro- 
tracted life.  In  word,  thought,  and  deed  they  were  as 
one.  She  died  in  Rome  of  fever,  and  her  husband, 
without  so  far  as  I  know  any  particular  complaint, 
dimply  followed  her. 

I  was  always  honored  with  their  sincerest  friendship, 
and  Sir  Charles  left  me  sole  trustee  and  guardian  to 
}iis  three  sons ;  so  there  are  now  plenty  of  lives  be- 
tween Ralph  Carriston  and  his  desire.  I  am  pleased 
to  say  that  the  boys,  who  are  as  dear  to  me  as  my  own 
children,  as  yet  show  no  evidence  of  possessing  any 
gifts  beyond  nature. 

I  know  that  my  having  made  this  story  public  will 
cause  two  sets  of  objectors  to  fall  equally  foul  of  me 
— the  matter-of-fact  prosaic  man  who  will  say  that  the 
abduction  and  subsequent  imprisonment  of  Madeline 
Rowan  was  an  absurd  impossibility,  and  the  scientific 
man,  like  myself,  who  cannot,  dare  not  believe  that 
Charles  Carriston,  from  neither  memory  nor  imagina- 
tion, could  draw  a  face,  and  describe  peculiarities,  by 


caeriston's  gift.  155 

whicli  a  certain  man  could  be  identiiied.  I  am  far 
from  saying  there  may  not  be  a  simple  natural  ex- 
planation of  the  puzzle,  but  I,  for  one,  have  failed  to 
find  it,  so  close  this  tale  as  I  began  it  by  saying  I  am  a 
narrator,  and  notkinsr  more. 


EERIE    TALES    OF    "CHINATOWN." 

Bits   of  ...  . 
Broken    China 

By  WILLIAM  E.  S.  PALES 

A  collection  of  captivating  novelettes  deal- 
ing with  life  in  New  York's  "Chinatown." 

The  struggles  and  ambitions  of  the  China- 
man in  America,  his  loves  and  jealousies, 
his  hopes  and  fears,  his  sorrows,  his  joys, 
these  are  the  materials  on  which  Mr.  Fales 
has  built  his  book 

It  is  a  new  field,  and  all  the  more  inter- 
esting on  that  account.  The  author  has 
made  a  life  study  of  his  subject ;  and  no  one 
is  better  qualified  than  he  to  present  a  picture 
of  this  romantic  corner  of  New  York  where 
lives  the  exiled  Chinaman     ...... 

"Bits  of  Broken  China"  is  undoubtedly 
one  of  the  most  delightful  volumes  for  lighter 
reading  published  this  season 

Bound  in  cloth.        Gold  top.        Fully  Illustrated 

Price,  75  Cents. 

STREET  AND  SMITH,  New  York  and  London 


A    HERO    OF    THE     SWORD. 

The  King's  Gallant 

By  ALEXANDRE   DUMAS. 


"The  King's  Gallant"  is  deserving  of 
recognition,  in  that  it  is  not  only  a  noveliza- 
tion  of  the  earliest  of  Dumas'  plays,  but  it 
marks  a  distinct  triumph  in  his  career.     .     . 

If  this  production  is  full  of  the  rushing 
vigor  of  youth,  it  is  because  its  celebrated 
author  was  but  a  j^outh  when  he  penned  it, 
yet  it  was  the  stepping  stone  which  led  to 
that  upward  flight  wherein  he  was  speedily 
hailed  as  the  "  Wizard  of  Fiction."     .     .     . 

It  is  a  volume  full  of  action  with  a  strong 
plot  and  a  truly  masterful  deliniation  of 
character 


i2mo.  Cloth.  Price,  $i.oo. 


STREET  AND  SMITH,  New  York  aiid  Londo7i 


The  Story  of  a  Fight  for  a  Throne 

D'Artagnan,  the 
King  Maker  .  .  . 

By  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 


Written  originally  by  Dumas  as  a  play,  and  now  for  the 
first  time  novelized  and  translated  into  English. 

The  Philadelphia  Enquirer  says : 

"A  pretty  love  story  in  which  the  debonair 
cavalier  falls  victim  to  Cupid's  wiles  is  one 
of  the  interesting  threads  running  through 
the  book." 

The  Chicago  Record-Herald  says : 

"It  is  singular  that  this  bit  of  romance  has 
been  suffered  to  remain  hidden  away  for  so 
long  a  time.  D'Artagnan's  manner  of 
winning  the  hermit  kingdom  contains 
enough  thrills  to  repay  a  careful  reading. 
The  story  oozes  adventure  at  every  chapter." 

The  Brooklyn  Eagle  says  : 

"It  is  a  strong  tale  brimful  of  incident 
from  the  moment  when  Cardinal  Richelieu 
dispatches  the  redoubtable  D' Artagnan  on  his 
king-making  mission  to  Portugal."    .    .     . 

i2mo.,  Illustrated.  Price,  jgi.oo. 


STREET  AND  SMITH,  New  York  and  London 


A  Book  Full  of  ''Human"  Interest. 

QUEER    PEOPLE 

By  WILLIAM  HENRY  BISHOP. 

Author  of  "DSTMOI.D." 


Not  one  story,  but  a  number  of  charming 
storyettes,  terse,  snappy  and  absorbingly 
interesting 

There  is  a  delightful  pen  sketch  of  a 
woman  of  small  means  who  aspires  to  a  con- 
nection with  the  smart  set.  Her  attempts 
to  disguise  the  true  state  of  affairs  from  her 
out-of-town  friends  are  laughable  ;  but  the 
fun  becomes  tinged  with  pathos  when  she 
borrows  a  furnished  mansion  for  an  evening, 
and  a  rich  relative,  invited  to  dine  with 
her,  uncloaks  the  pitiable  fraud     .... 

The  promising  boy  and  the  fond  patroness 
are  the  chief  characters  in  another  brilliant 
characterstudy  in  "Queer  People."    .    .    . 

i2mo.,  Cloth.  Price,  ^i.oo. 


STREET  AND  SMITH,  New  York  and  London 


THE  STORY  OF  A  HOPELESS  LOVE. 

Tons   of  Treasure 

By  WILLIAM  HENRY  BISHOP. 

Author  of  *  'Dktmoi^d.  ' ' 


When  two  women  love  one  man  there  is 
usually  trouble  brewing.  Nor  is  the  story 
which  Mr.  Bishop  has  to  tell  an  exception. 
His  hero  is  a  manl)^  New  Yorker,  who  is 
fired  with  a  zeal  to  "make  good"  a  defalca- 
tion accredited  to  his  dead  father    .... 

In  quest  of  gold  he  visits  Mexico  and 
there  meets  a  dreamy-eyed  maid  who 
straightway  gives  him  first  place  in  her 
heart.  But  an  American  girl  has  already 
won  his  love.  It  is  a  pathetic  situation  and 
if  one  true  woman's  heart  breaks  before  the 
man's  mission  is  ended  who  is  to  blame? 

There  are  many  touching  incidents  in  the 
book,  but  none  more  full  of  pathos  than 
when  the  woman  who  loves  bares  her  soul 
to  the  woman  who  is  loved 

i2mo.,  Cloth.  Price,  $i.oo. 


STREET  AND  SMITH,  New  York  a7id  London 


A  PEEP  BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 

Among  the  Freaks 

By  W.  L.  ALDEN. 


Here  is  a  volume  of  unique  interest, 
dealing  as  it  does  with  the  fortunes  and 
misfortunes  of  the  various  "freaks"  to  be 
found  in  a  Dime  Museum.  It  relates  the 
woes  of  the  original  Wild  Man  of  Borneo, 
tells  how  the  Fat  Woman  tried  to  elope,  of 
the  marvelous  mechanical  tail  the  dwarf 
invented,  of  how  the  Mermaid  boiled  her 
tail,  and  of  a  thrilling  plot  hatched  out  by 
the  Giant  and  others.  Full  of  telling  illus- 
trations. Easily  one  of  the  best  works  this 
gifted  writer  has  ever  produced.     .     ,     •    . 


i8mo,,  Cloth.  Price,  75  cents. 


STREET  AND  SMITH,  New  York  and  Londoji 


M501469 


rf  74- 


